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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
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https://archive.org/details/lifeofcharlesdic00fors_0 


THE  LIFE 

OF  [ 

CHARLES  DICKENSii 

I 

BY  I 

JOHN  FORSTER  I: 

!l 

I ! 


WITH  FORTY  ILLUSTRATIONS 


NEW  YORK 

D.  APPLETON  & CO.,  BROADWAY 


TO  THE  DAUGHTERS  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS, 


MY  GODDAUGHTER  MARY 

AND 

HER  SISTER  KATE, 

THIS  BOOK  IS  DEDICATED  BY  THEIR  FRIEND, 
AND  THEIR  FATHER’S  FRIEND  AND  EXECUTOR, 


JOHN  FORSTER. 


( 


^ delayed  till  intwest  and  envy  are  at  an  end,  we  may  hope  for  impartiality,  but  must  expect  little 

I intelligence  ; for  ihe  mcidents  which  give  excellence  to  biography  are  of  a volatile  and  evanescent  kind.  ” 

Johnson  (Rambler,  6o). 


II. 

“ I cannot  conceive  a more  perfect  mode  of  writing  any  man’s  life,  than  not  only  relating  all  the  most  important 
events  of  it  m their  order,  but  interweaving  what  he  privately  wrote,  and  said.”— Boswell  (Life  of  Johnson). 


III. 

“ ....  I incline  to  consider  this  Biography  as  taking  rank,  in  essential  respects,  parallel  to  BosweU  himself, 
j though  on  widely  different  grounds.  Boswell,  by  those  genial  abridgements  and  vivid  face  to  face  pictures  of  John- 
son’s thoughts,  conversational  ways  and  modes  of  appearance  among  his  fellow-creatures,  has  given,  as  you  often  hear 
me  say,  such  a delineation  of  a man’s  existence  as  was  never  given  by  another  man.  By  quite  different  resources, 
by  those  spariding,  clear,  and  sunny  utterances  of  Dickens’s  own  (bits  of  aii^-biography  unrivalled  in  clearness  and 
credibility)  which  were  at  your  disposal,  and  have  been  intercalated  every  now  and  then,  you  have  given  to  every 
intelligent  eye  the  power  of  looking  down  at  the  very  bottom  of  Dickens’s  mode  of  e.xisting  in  this  world  ; and  I say, 
have  performed  a feat  which,  except  in  Boswell,  the  unique,  I know  not  where  to  parallel.  So  long  as  Dickens  is 
I interesting  to  his  fellow  men,  here  will  be  seen,  face  to  face,  what  Dickens’s  manner  of  existing  was.  His  bright 
and  jo)ful  sympathy  with  everything  around  him ; his  steady  practicality,  withal ; the  singularly  solid  business  talent 
i he  continually  had  ; and,  deeper  than  all,  if  one  has  the  eye  to  see  deep  enough,  dark,  fateful,  silent  elements,  tragical 
to  look  upon,  and  hiding,  amid  dazzling  radiances  as  of  the  sun,  the  elements  of  death  itself.  Those  two  American 
journeys  especially  transcend  in  tragic  interest,  to  a thinking  reader,  most  things  one  has  seen  in  writing!” — 

, Thomas  Carlyle  (Letter  to  the  Author,  i6  February,  1874). 


[5 

^ REMOTE  Si  OivAvGE 

^ TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 

BOOK  FIRST— CHILDHOOD  AND  YOUTH. 

1812 — 1836.  JEt.  I — 24. 

Pages  i — 30. 


I.  Pages  I — 9. 

Earliest  Years. 

1812 — 1822. 

PAGE 


Family  of  John  Dickens i 

Birthplace  of  Charles  Dickens  ....  2 

In  London,  set.  2 — 3 2 

In  Chatham,  set.  4 — 9 ......  2 

The  queer  small  boy 2 

Earliest  schools 3 

David  Copperfield  and  Charles  Dickens  (D.  C.  and 
C.  D.) 4 

Tragedy-writing 4 

Comic-song  singing  ......  4 

At  Mr.  Giles’s  school S 

Quitting  Chatham 5 

First  impressions  in  London 6 

Faculty  of  early  observation  .....  6 

Description  of  his  father  .....  6 

Choice  of  a biographer  . . . . . . 7 

First  efforts  at  descriptive  writing  ....  8 

I “ Res  Angusta  Domi  ” .....  8 

I Father  in  the  Marshalsea  .....  8 

Visit  to  the  prison 8 

At  the  pawnbroker’s 9 


II.  Pages  9 — 16. 

Hard  Experiences  in  Boyhood. 
1822 — 1824. 


Mr.  Dhke’s  half-crown 9 

Story  of  boyhood  told 9 

Enterprise  of  the  cousins  Lamert  . . . .10 

First  employment  in  life 10 

A poor  little  drudge 1 1 

The  home  in  Gower-street 1 1 

Home  broken  up 1 1 

Sundays  in  prison 12 

What  was  and  might  have  been  . . . .12 

Remonstrance  with  father 13 

A lodging  in  Lant-street 13 

Dickens  and  the  Marchioness  . . . -13 

Saturday-nights 13 

Appraised  officially 14 

Publican  and  wife  at  Cannon-row  . . . ■ 14 

Last  experience  in  Marshalsea  . . . -15 

Materials  for  Pickwick  . . . . . .15 

Sister  Fanny’s  musical  prize  . . . - IS 

Father’s  quarrel  with  Lamert  ....  16 

End  of  servitude  .......  16 


HI.  Pages  17 — 24. 

School  Days  and  Start  in  Life. 

1824 — 1830. 

y PAGE 


Outcome  of  boyish  trials 

. 17 

Disadvantage  and  advantages 

. 17 

Wellington-house  academy  . 

. 17 

Revisited  and  described 

18 

Schoolfellow’s  recollections  . 

. 18 

School-chums  .... 

. 19 

Facsimile  of  schoolboy  letter 

. 19 

The  school-master 

20 

Writing  tales  and  getting  up  plays 

20 

Street-acting  .... 

21 

Smallness  of  the  world  . 

22 

In  attorneys’  offices 

22 

At  minor  theatres 

52 

The  father  on  son’s  education 

• 23 

Preparing  for  the  gallery 
Reporting  in  Doctors’  Commons  . 

• 23 

• 23 

A Dora  changed  into  a Flora 

. 24 

rV.  Pages  24 — 28. 

Newspaper  Reporting  and  Writing. 
1831—1835. 


Reporting  for  True  Sun 

. 24 

First  seen  by  me  .... 

. 24 

Tries  to  get  upon  the  stage  . 

■ 25 

First  published  piece 

. 25 

Life  as  a reporter  .... 

• 25 

John  Black 

26 

Mr.  Thomas  Beard 

26 

Incident  of  reporting  days 
Origin  of  “ Boz  ” .... 

26 

. 27 

Mr.  George  Hogarth 

. 27 

Sketches  in  Evening  Chronicle 

. 28 

V.  Pages  28 — 30. 

First  Book  and  Origin  of  Pickwick. 


1836. 

Sketches  by  Boz  .......  28 

Start  of  Pickwick  .......  28 

Marriage  to  Miss  Hogarth  .....  28 

Connection  with  Chapman  and  Hall  ...  28 

Mr.  Seymour’s  part  in  Pickwick  ....  29 

Pickwick’s  original  figure  and  name  ...  29 

The  Sketches  characterized  .....  29 

Successor  to  Mr.  Seymour 30 

Dickens  leaves  the  gallery  .....  30 

Strange  Gentleman  and  Village  Coquettes  , . 30 


-58466 


VI 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


BOOK  SECOND.— FIRST  FIVE  YEARS  OF  FAME. 


1836 — 1841. 


JEt.  24 — 29. 


Pages  31 — 81. 


I.  Pages  31—39. 

Writing  the  Pickwick  Papers. 
1837- 


Dickens  35  years  ago 
Mrs.  Carlyle  and  Leigh  Hunt 
Birth  of  eldest  .son 
A long-remembered  sorrow  . 

A lasting  friendship 
Hasty  compacts  with  publishers 
Troublesome  results 
Oliver  Twist 

Reality  of  characters  to  himself 
Pickwick,  Nos.  14  and  15 
Reception  of  Pickwick  . 

Mr.  Carlyle’s  “ dreadful  ” stoiy 
Pickwick  inferior  to  later  books 
Personal  habits 
Tale  to  follow  Oliver  Twist  . 
Compromise  with  Mr.  Bentley 
First  visit  to  Broadstairs 
First  visit  to  Brighton  . 

“ No  Thoroughfare  ” 

Proposed  help  to  Macready  . 


PAG:' 


31 

31 

3' 

32 
32 
32 

32 

33 

34 

34 

35 
35 
35 
35 


39 


Characteristics 

PAGE 

47 

Birthday  letter 

48 

A theatrical  adaptation 

48 

At  the  Adelphi 

48 

Winding  up  the  stoiy  . 

49 

The  Nickleby  dinner 

49 

Its  only  survivors  . 

50 

V.  Pages  50-53. 
During  and  after  Nickleby. 


1838—1839. 

At  Twickenham  and  Petersham  . . . . 50 

Daniel  Maclise 50 

Ainsworth  and  other  friends 50 

Reading  a farce  at  Covent  Garden  . . -51 

Entered  at  the  Middle  Temple  . . . .51 

Shakespeare-society  . . . . . .51 

Birth  of  second  daughter 51 

House-hunting  . . . . . . *51 

Letter  from  Exeter 52 

Autobiographical 52 

A home  for  his  father  and  mother  . . -52 


II.  Pages  39 — 42. 

Between  Pickwick  and  Nickleby. 
1837  and  1838. 


Edits  Life  of  Grimaldi 39 

Recollections  of  1823 39 

Completion  of  Pickwick  .....  39 

Payments  made 40 

Agreement  for  Nicholas  Nickleby  ....  40 

Oliver  Twist  characterized  .....  40 

Mr.  Bentley  and  Parnaby  Pud^-e  . . . *41 

Birth  of  eldest  daughter  . . . . -41 

First  number  of  Nicholas  Nickleby  ...  42 

Second  of  April  1838 42 


HI.  Pages  42 — 45. 
Oliver  Twist. 


1838. 


Interest  in  the  characters 

. 42 

Writing  of  the  last  chapter  . 

. 42 

False  statement  exposed 

• 43 

Reputation  of  the  new  talc  . 

• 43 

Its  workmanship  .... 

• 43 

Comedy  and  tragedj’  of  crime 

• 44 

Reply  to  attacks  .... 

• 44 

Appeal  as  to  Barnaby  . 

• 45 

Barnaby  given  up  by  Mr.  Bentley 

• 45 

Resignation  of  Miscellany 

• 45 

IV.  Pages  45 — 50. 
Nicholas  Nickleby. 
1838— 1839. 


Doubts  of  success  dispelled 4b 

Characters  self-revealed  .....  46 

Sydney  Smith  and  Newman  Noggs  ...  46 

Earlier  and  later  books 47 


VI.  Pages  53— 55. 
New  Literary  Project. 
1839. 


Thoughts  for  the  future 

• 53 

Suggestions  for  his  publishers 

• 53 

Proposed  weekly  publication 

• 53 

Subjects  to  be  dealt  with 

• 54 

Visits  to  Ireland  and  America  in  view  . 

• 54 

Assent  of  his  publishers 

• 55 

Terms  of  agreement  .... 

• 55 

A name  chosen 

• 55 

VH.  Pages  55 — 60. 
Old  Curiosity  Shop. 
1840—1841. 


Visit  to  Walter  Landor  .... 

• 55 

First  thought  of  Little  Nell  .... 

• 5b 

First  sale  of  Master  Hu?nphrey 

• 5b 

Original  jilan  abandoned  .... 

• 5b 

At  Lawn-house,  Broadstairs  .... 

• 57 

Progress  of  child-story 

• 57 

Dick  Swivellcr  and  the  Marchioness 

• 57 

Closing  of  the  tale 

• 58 

Efl'ect  upon  the  writer  . • . . . 

• 58 

Death  of  Little  Nell  ..... 

• 58 

My  share  in  the  clo.se  ..... 

• 59 

Characters  and  Characteristics 

• 59 

Constructed  bit  by  bit  ..... 

• 59 

Harmony  and  fitness  ..... 

• 59 

A recent  tribute 

. 60 

Dickens  in  Camp 

60 

VHI.  Pages  60— 65. 

Devonshire  Terrace  and  Bkoaixstairs. 

1840. 

A good  saying 60 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


Landor  mystified 

PAGE 

, . Cl 

Horse  exercise 

61 

First  of  the  Ravens  .... 

. . 61 

Practical  humanity  .... 

. . 62 

Transfer  of  Bamahy  settled  . 

. . 62 

Revisiting  old  scenes  .... 

. 63 

Published  libels  against  him  . 

. 63 

Begging-lettcr-writers  .... 

. . 64 

Friends  famihar  at  this  time  . 

. . 64 

Social  qualities 

. . 64 

IX.  Pages  66 — 70. 
B.\rnaby  Rudge. 


1841. 

Advantage  in  beginning  Bamahy  ....  66 

Birth  of  fourth  child  and  second  son  ...  66 

Death  of  Grip  the  Raven 66 

His  last  days  described  ......  66 

Family  mourners  . . . . . . .67 

At  ChigweU  and  a Clock  dinner  ....  67 

The  Pic  Nic  Papers  ......  68 

Writing  Bamahy  in  Scotland  ....  68 

Serious  iUness  and  close  of  Bamahy  ...  69 

Character  and  defects  of  the  tale  ....  69 

Leading  persons  in  it 70 

Mr.  Dennis  *he  hangman 70 


X.  Pages  70 — 74. 

In  Edinburgh. 

1841. 

Son  Walter 

70 

Dickens  and  new  poor-law  . . . . 

■ 70 

Resolve  to  visit  Scotland  . . . . 

• 71 

vil 


Proposed  Edinburgh  dinner 71 

Professor  Wilson 71 

The  dinner  and  speeches  .....  72 

Freedom  of  city  voted  to  him  ....  72 

Hospitalities 73 

Proposed  visit  to  the  Highlands  ....  73 

Guide  and  friend 74 


XI.  Pages  74 — 78. 
In  the  Highlands. 


1841. 

Highland  accommodation 74 

Grand  scenery 75 

The  pass  of  Glencoe  ...  • • • 75 

Postal  service  and  maid  of  the  inn  ...  76 

Exciting  adventures 76 

Dangerous  travelling 77 

Escape  and  rescue 77 

Highland  inn  and  inmates 77 

Home  again ' . . *78 


XII.  Pages  78—81. 
Again  at  Broadstairs. 


1841. 


Peel  and  his  party 

Quack-doctor’s  proclamation 

. 78 

. . 78 

Other  political  squibs  . . . . 

• 79 

A fine  old  English  Tory 

. 79 

Metropolitan  prisons  .... 

. . 80 

Another  story  in  prospect 

. . 80 

Agreement  for  it  signed 

80 

The  book  that  was  to  be  Chuzzlewit 

. 80 

Peel  and  Lord  Ashley  .... 

. 81 

BOOK  THIRD.— AMERICA. 


1841- 

00 

T 

Pages 

I.  Pages  81—83. 

Eve  of  the  Visit. 

1841. 

Greetings  from  America  . . ... 

. 81 

Resolve  to  go 

. 82 

Arrangements  and  impatience 

. 82 

Grave  illness  and  domestic  griefs  . 

. 82 

At  Windsor 

• 83 

Walter’s  cliristening  and  Adieus  . 

• 83 

II.  Pages  83 — 90. 

First  Impressions. 

1842. 

A steamer  in  a storm 

. 84 

Of  himself  and  fellow-travellers 

. 84 

The  ladies’  cabin  ...... 

. 84 

Ship-news 

• 85 

Halifax  harbour  ...... 

• 85 

Ovation  in  house  of  assembly 

. 86 

At  Tremont-house,  Boston  .... 

. 86 

Enthusiasm  of  welcome  ..... 

. 86 

Proposed  dinners  and  balls  .... 

. 86 

A secretary  engaged 

• 87 

Personal  notices 

. 87 

JEt.  29 — 30. 


I— 130. 


First  satisfactions 

. 89 

Reasons  for  the  greeting 

. 89 

Subsequent  disappointments  . 

. . 89 

New  York  invitation  to  dinner 

. 90 

New  York  invitation  to  ball  . 

. 90 

HI.  Pages  90 — 98. 

Second  Impressions. 

1842. 

International  copyright  . 

. 90 

The  dinner  at  Boston  . 

91 

Queer  traveUing  and  serenades 

. 91 

Cornelius  C.  Felton 

92 

New  York  ball  described 

92 

Newspaper  accounts 

• 93 

International  copyright  troubles 

• 93 

Dickens  declines  to  be  silent  . 

93 

The  New  York  dinner  . 

94 

Results  of  copyright  speeches 

• 94 

Distresses  of  popularity  . 

• 95 

Intentions  for  future 

95 

Going  south  and  west  . 

95 

Slavery  and  ladies  of  America 

. 96 

Non-arrival  of  Cunard  steamer 

96 

A substitute  for  the  Caledonia 

• 97 

viii  TABLE 

OF  CONTENTS. 

E»AGB  ! 

PACK 

' Of  distinguished  Americans  ..... 

97  1 

Outline  of  westward  travel  .... 

. 114 

The  truth  of  copyright  question  .... 

97 

A temperance  festival  ..... 

. 1 14 

Acadia  takes  Caledonia’s  place  .... 

97 

A party  at  Judge  Walker’s  .... 

. 114 

Letter  to  Dickens  from  Carlyle  .... 

97 

Down  the  Mississippi 

. 114 

Carlyle’s  argument  against  stealing 

98 

At  St.  Louis 

• "S 

Of  slaves  and  slavery  . . . . 

. 1 1 ^ 

IV.  Pages  98 — 106. 

Pretty  scene  ....... 

. 1 16 

Philadllphia  and  the  South. 

Small  mother  and  her  husband 

• "7 

Trip  to  a prairie  ...... 

.117 

1042. 

A prairie  and  pic-nic 

- "7 

; At  Philadelphia 

98 

Soiree  at  Planter’s-inn  ..... 

. 117  ! 

\ Railway  travelling 

98 

From  Cincinnati  to  Columbus 

. 118 

Massachusetts  and  New  York  .... 

99 

From  Columbus  to  Sandusky 

. 118  ! 

I New  York  honse  of  detention  .... 

99 

The  log-house  inn  ...... 

. I ig  1 

' Women  and  boy  prisoners 

100 

A monetary  crisis 

• "9  1 

Capital  punishment  . ..... 

100 

Want  of  humour  in  the  West 

. 119 

Comparison  with  English  prisons  .... 

lOI 

From  Sandusky  to  Buffalo  .... 

. 120 

At  Washington  ....... 

102 

From  Buffalo  to  Niagara  .... 

. 120 

Philadelphia  penitentiary  ..... 

102 

Effect  of  the  Falls  upon  Dickens  . 

. 120 

Proposed  journeyings  in  Washington 

103 

Looking  forward 

. I2I 

Leading  American  statesmen  .... 

103 

As  to  the  people  of  America 

104 

At  Richmond 

104 

Washington  Irving 

104 

VII.  Pages  1 2 1— 125. 

Discussion  with  a slave-holder  .... 

105 

Niagara  and  Montreal. 

Levees  at  Richmond  ...... 

105 

One  more  banquet  accepted 

105 

I042. 

Home  letters  and  fancies 

105 

Vanquished  on  copyright  question 

. I2I 

Two  insurmountable  obstacles 

. I2I 

V.  Pages  106—113. 

Substitute  for  Literature  .... 

122 

Canal  and  Steam  Boat  Journeys. 

Secretary  described 

. 122 

Toryism  of  Toronto 

■ 123 

A private  play 

• 123 

Character  in  the  Letters  ..... 

106 

Stage  manager’s  report 

• 123 

The  Notes  less  satisfactory  ..... 

106 

Bill  of  the  performance  ..... 

. 124 

A fact  to  be  remembered  ..... 

106 

Home 

125 

Personal  character  pourtrayed  .... 

107 

Queer  stage-coach  ...... 

107 

Local  legislatures  and  levees  ..... 

108 

Life  in  canal-boat  ....... 

108 

vTH.  Pages  125 — 13c, 

By  rail  across  mountain 

109 

American  Notes. 

Original  of  Eden  in  Chuzzlewit  .... 

109 

Fixing-;  ......... 

109 

1042. 

“ Smallness  of  the  world  ” . . . . . 

1 10 

Return  from  America  ..... 

• 125 

Queer  customers  at  levees  ..... 

no 

Longfellow  in  England 

• 125 

On  board  Cincinnati  steamer  .... 

I 10 

At  Broads  t airs 

• >25 

Specimens  of  bores 

III 

Preparing  Notes  ...... 

. 126 

Our  anniversary  ....... 

”3 

Seaside  attractions  ..... 

. 126 

Arrival  at  Cincinnati  

”3 

Burlesque  of  classic  tragedy  .... 

. 126 

The  city  described  ....... 

>13 

Authorship  and  sea-bathing  .... 

. 127 

Easy-living  rich  and  patient  poor  . 

. 127 

VI.  Pages  1 13  — 121. 

Rejected  motto  for  Notes  .... 

. 128 

Far  West:  to  Niagara  Falls. 

Introductory  chapter  suppressed  . 

. 129 

1842. 

Chapter  first  printed 

129—30 

Jeffrey’s  opinion  of  the  Notes 

• 130 

Letters  and  Notes  ....... 

114 

Experience  of  America  in  1868 

. 130 

BOOK  FOURTH. 

—LONDON  AND  GENOA. 

1843—1 

845- 

Air.  31— 33- 

Pages  131 — 181. 

I.  Pages  131— 137. 

Names  first  given  to  Chuzzlewit  . 

• '32 

First  Year  of  Martin  Chuzzlewit. 

Prologue  to  a play 

• '32 

George  Eliot’s  first  book  .... 

• '33 

1843. 

Miss  Georgina  Hogarth  .... 

• '33 

A sunset  at  Land’s-end 

13' 

Three  portraits  ...... 

■ '33 

A holiday  described  by  Dickens  .... 

'3' 

A ])ublic  benefactor  ..... 

• '34 

Doings  and  recollections  of  Maclisc 

'3' 

Controversy  on  Notes 

• '34 

TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


PACK 


Original  of  Mrs.  Gamp  .... 

• 134 

Dinner  to  John  Black  .... 

• '35 

Macready  and  America  .... 

• '35 

Exertions  for  Elton  family 

• '35 

Public  speeches 

• '36 

Ragged  schools  and  results  . 

136 

Religious  opinions  .... 

■ '37 

Christmas  Carol  ..... 

• 137 

Birth  of  third  son 

• 137 

11  Pages  137— 14C. 

Chuzzlewit  Disappointments  .\nd 
Carol. 
1843—1844. 

Christmas 

Falling  off  in  Chuzzlewit  sale 

• '37 

A provocation  received  . 

. 138 

Resolve  to  change  his  publishers  . 

. 138 

Proposal  to  his  printers  . 

. '38 

Design  to  go  abroad 

• '39 

Objections  to  the  scheme 

• 139 

Bent  on  his  plan  .... 

. 140 

Turning  point  of  his  career  . 

. 140 

On  Martin  Chuzzlewit  . 

• 141 

The  book’s  special  superiority 

. 141 

American  compensations 

. 142 

"Why  no  Pecksniff  in  France 

. 142 

AVhy  Tartuffes  in  England 

142 

Process  of  creation  in  a novel 

• 143 

Leading  characters 

■ 143 

A masterpiece  of  art  and  humour  . 

■ 144 

Publication  of  Christmas  Carol 

• 144 

Results  of  sale  .... 

■ '45 

Renewed  negotiations  with  printers 

■ '45 

Agreement  with  Bradbury  and  Evans 

• 145 

Letters  about  the  Carol 

. 146 

Something  better  than  literature  . 

. 146 

III.  Pages  146—151. 

Year  of  Departure  for 

Italy. 

1844. 

Gore-house  fi  lends 

. 146 

A troublesome  cheque  . 

• 147 

Sufferings  from  stage-adaptations  . 

• 147 

Wrongs  from  piracy 

■ 147 

Result  of  Chancery  experience 

. 148 

ReUefs  to  work  .... 

. 148 

Humour  criticized  without  humour 

• 149 

Taine  on  Dickens  .... 

• '49 

Writing  in  the  Chronicle 

• 150 

Preparations  for  departure 

• 150 

Begging-letter  case 

■ '50 

The  farewell  dinner-party 

■ 151 

“ Evenings  of  a Working-man  ” . 

• '5' 

Greenwich  dinner  .... 

■ '5' 

IV.  Pages  151  — 160. 

Idleness  at  Albaro  ; V illa  B.'^gnerello. 
1844. 


The  travel  to  Italy  . . . . . -151 

Villa  taken  for  him  ......  152 

First  expenences  152 

Sunsets  and  scenery  . . . . . -153 

Address  to  Maclise -153 

The  cicala  and  the  frescoes 153 

Rooms  in  villa  described 154 

Angus  Fletcher’s  sketch 154 

Surrounding  scenery 155 


Preparing  for  work  .... 

PAGh 

• 15s 

Domestic  news  ..... 

• '55 

Genoa  the  superb  ..... 

• '5^' 

Puppets  and  plays  .... 

• '5<'> 

Theatres  and  convents  .... 

• '57 

Winter  residence  chosen 

• 158 

Complimentary  verses  .... 

. . 158 

Rumours  of  war  with  England 

. 158 

Flight  and  tumble  ..... 

• 159 

English  visitors  and  news 

■ '59 

Talk  with  Lord  Robertson  . 

. 160 

Dangers  of  sea  bathing  .... 

. 160 

V.  Pages  160 — 168. 

Work  in  Genoa  : Palazzo  Peschiere. 
1844. 


Palace  of  the  Fishponds 

. 161 

Rooms  and  frescoes  .... 

. 161 

Peschiere  garden  and  view 

. 161 

A difficulty  settled  .... 

. 162 

Again  at  work 

. 162 

Subject  he  is  working  at  . . . 

. 163 

Master-passion  ..... 

• 163 

A dream  or  vision  ..... 

• 163 

Trying  regions  of  thought 

. 164 

First  part  of  book  finished 

. 164 

Differences  from  published  tale 

• 165 

First  outline  of  the  Chimes  . 

• 165 

Liking  for  the  subject  .... 

. 166 

Reahties  of  fictitious  sorrow  . 

. 166 

Coming  to  London  .... 

. 167 

Secret  of  the  visit 

. 167 

The  tale  finished  ..... 

. 168 

Jeffrey  to  Dickens 

. 168 

Party  for  the  Reading  .... 

. 168 

VI.  Pages  168 — 173. 
Italian  Travel. 
1844. 


Cities  and  people  .... 

. 168 

Rapture  of  enjoyment  at  Venice  . 

. 169 

Aboard  the  city  .... 

. . . 169 

Characteristics  of  his  observation  . 

. 169 

About  paintings  in  Venice 

. 170 

Monks  and  painters 

. 170 

The  inns 

Louis  Roche  of  Avignon 

. 171 

A dinner  at  the  Peschiere 

. 171 

At  Milan  and  Strasburg 
A Reading  in  Lincoln’s-inn-fields  . 

. . . 172 

. . . 172 

In  Paris  with  Macready 

. 172 

A recognition  at  Marseilles  . 

• 173 

Friendly  Americans 

• 173 

VII.  Pages  173 — 18 1. 
Last  Months  in  Italy. 
1845. 


Suspicious  “ Characters  ” . 

• 173 

Birth  of  1845  

• 173 

Carrara  and  Pisa 

• 174 

Wild  journey  ...... 

. 174 

A beggar  and  “ my  lord  ” . . . . 

. 174 

At  Rome  ....... 

• 175 

At  Naples 

• 175 

Sad  English  news  ...... 

. 176 

Florence  and  Landor’s  villa  .... 

- 177 

As  to  letters  and  publication  .... 
Again  at  the  Peschiere 

. 178 
- 178 

X 

TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 

English  residents  and  funerals 

PAGE 

. 179 

Last  letter  from  Genoa 

PAGE 

. 180 

Scarlet  breeches  out  of  place 

• '79 

Returning  by  Switzerland  ..... 

. 180 

Angus  Fletcher’s  death 

• '79 

Passage  of  the  St.  Gothard  .... 

. 180 

Complaint  of  a meek  footman 

■ '79 

What  is  left  behind  the  Alps 

. 181 

A touch  of  Portsmouth  .... 

• ‘79 

A week  in  Flanders  ..... 

. 181 

BOOK  FIFTH. 

—LONDON, 

L.AUSANNE,  AND  PARIS. 

1845—1847-  -^T.  33 
Pages  i 


-35- 


I.  Pages  181 — 187. 
Again  in  England. 
1845-1846. 

Old  hopes  revived 
Notion  for  a periodical  . 

Swept  away  by  a larger  venture 
Turned  into  Christmas  book  . 

Another  passage  of  autobiography 
Early  stage  studies  and  rehearsings 
The  private  play  at  Fanny  Kelly’s 
Every  Man  in  his  Humour 
The  acting  and  the  success  . 

Dickens’s  management  . 

Behind  scenes  in  Dean-street 
Birth  of  fourth  son 
Second  Raven’s  death  . 

Intended  daily  paper 
My  appeal  against  the  enterprise 
Reply  and  issue  . 

The  beginning  and  the  end  . 

Back  to  old  pursuits 
A happy  and  a -wise  saying  . 

Leaves  England  . 


181 

182 
182 
182 

182 

183 
183 

183 

184 

184 

185 
i8s 
185 

185 

186 
186 

186 

187 
187 
1S7 


II.  Pages  187 — 194. 
Retreat  to  Switzerland. 
1846. 

On  the  Rhine 

. 187 

Travelling  Englishmen 

. 1S8 

House-hunting 

. 188 

A cottage  chosen 

. 188 

Lausanne  described  ..... 

. 189 

A sketch  of  Rosemont  ..... 

. 190 

Design  as  to  work 

. 190 

The  English  colony  ..... 

. 190 

A death  in  the  lake 

. 191 

The  Prison  at  Lausanne  .... 

. 191 

Blind  Institution  and  patients 

. 191 

Interesting  cases 

. 192 

Habits  of  idiot  and  savage  .... 

. 192 

Attending  to  the  Neglected  .... 

• '93 

Beginning  work 

• 193 

Sortes  Shandyanre 

• '94 

The  Christmas  tale 

• 194 

HI.  Pages  194— 199. 
Swiss  People  and  Scenery. 
1846. 

Mountains  and  lake 

• '94 

People  and  their  manners  .... 

• '94 

A country  fete 

• '95 

A marriage  on  the  farm  .... 

• '95 

First  number  of  Do/nbey  .... 

• '95 

General  idea  for  new  story  .... 

. 196 

1—223. 

A title  for  Christmas  book 
Residents  and  visitors  . 

Trip  to  Chamounix 
Mont  Blanc  range  and  Mer  de  Glace 
Help  in  an  accident 
Castle  of  Chillon  described  . 

Political  celebration  and  conduct  of  people 
Protestant  and  Catholic  cantons  . 

IV.  Pages  199 — 204. 
Sketches  chiefly  Personal. 
1846. 


196 

196 

197 

197 

»97 

198 

198 

199 


Home  politics 

'99 

Incidents  and  anecdotes  .... 

200 

Two  Dukes  ....... 

200 

Mr.  Watson  of  Rockingham  .... 

200 

Two  English  travellers 

200 

A Smollett  and  Fielding  hero 

201 

A baronet  and  his  family  .... 

201 

Lord  Vernon 

201 

Two  sisters  and  their  books  .... 

202 

Trip  to  Great  St.  Bernard  .... 

203 

The  Convent 

203 

The  holy  father  and  Pickwick 

203 

V.  Pages  204 — 210. 
Literary  Labour  at  Lausanne. 
1846. 

Picture  completed 

204 

Great  present  want 

204 

Self-judgments 

204 

The  Now  and  the  Hereafter  .... 

204 

A personal  revelation 

206 

Curious  wants  of  the  mind  .... 

206 

First  thought  of  Public  Readings  . 

206 

Two  stories  in  hand 

207 

Alarm  for  Domhey 

207 

Change  of  scene  to  be  tried  .... 

208 

At  Geneva 

208 

Wanting  counsel 

208 

New  social  experiences 

20S 

A ladies’  dinner  ...... 

209 

Again  at  Rosemont 

209 

Visit  of  the  Talfourds  ..... 

210 

VI.  Pages  210 — 216. 

Genevese  Revolution  .\nd  Battle  of 

Life. 

1846. 

An  arrival  of  manuscript  .... 

210 

Large  sale  of  Domhey  ..... 

210 

Agaiu  at  Geneva 

210 

Rising  against  the  Jesuits  .... 

21  I 

True  objection  to  K-omaii-Cntliolicism  . 

21  I 

Geneva  after  revolution  .... 

Daily  h'esvs  changes  .... 

212 

Story  of  the  Battle  of  Life  . 

213 

Old  characteristics  .... 

213 

Notes  on  the  story'  .... 

214 

Stanfield  illustrations  .... 

215 

Objections  invited  .... 

215 

Grave  mistake  by  Leech 

215 

How  dealt  with  by  Dickens  . 

215 

Last  days  in  Switzerland 

215 

Striking  tents 

216 

Travelling  to  Paris  .... 

216 

VII.  Pages  217—223. 
Three  AIonths  in  Paris. 
1846 — 1847. 

French  Sunday 

217 

BOOK  SIXTH.— 

I 

847—1852. 

Pages 

I.  Pages  223 — 232. 
Splendid  Strolling. 
1847 — 1848. 

Birth  of  fifth  son 

223 

In  aid  of  Leigh  Hunt  .... 

223 

Proposed  plays  and  actors 

223 

Alanager  and  his  troubles 

224 

CONTENTS. 

xi 

PAGE 

A house  taken  .... 

. . . 217 

Absurdity  of  the  abode 

. . . 217 

Sister  Fanny’s  illness 

. 218 

King  of  the  barricades  . 

. 218 

Unhealthy  symptoms 

. 218 

Americans  and  Parisians 

. 218 

Christmas  tale  on  the  stage  . 

. . . 210 

Startling  blue-devils 

, . . 220 

Cheap  edition  of  works  . 

. 220 

An  imaginary  dialogue  . 

. 220 

A Boulogne  reception  . 

. 221 

Sight-seeing 

. . . 221 

Visits  to  famous  Frenchmen  . 

. 221 

Evening  with  Victor  Hugo  . 

. . . 221 

Premonitory  symptoms 

. . . 222 

Illness  of  eldest  son 

. . . 22*51 

Old  charwoman’s  compliment 

• 223 

Apparition  of  Airs.  Gamp 
Airs.  Gamp  with  the  strollers 
Confidences  udth  Airs.  Harris 
Airs.  Gamp  descriptive 
Personal  portraits  . 

Bobadil’s  whiskers 
Douglas  Jerrold 
Strollers  sketched 
Time  come  for  savings 
Dropped  designs  . 

Seaside  street-music 
First  popular  edition 
Aleetings  at  Leeds  and  Glasgov/ 
Jeffrey  and  Knowles 
Scheme  to  benefit  Knowles 
Merry  Wives  undertaken 
Performances  and  result 


221; 

225 

22t; 

226 

227 
227 

227 

228 

229 

229 

230 

230 

231 

231 

231 

232 
232 


Jeffrey’s  criticisms 
A damper  to  the  spirits 
After  Paul’s  death 
Two  pages  too  little 
Edith’s  first  destiny 
Changed  for  Jeffrey 
Supposed  originals 
Guessers  at  fitult  . 


III.  Pages  243—254. 
Seaside  Holidays. 
1848 — 1851. 

Louis  Philippe  dethroned 
Citoyen  Dickens  at  Broadstairs 
Chinese  Junk  described 
Type  of  finality 
As  to  temperance  agitations  . 
Cruikshank’s  satirical  method 
Contrast  of  Hogarth’s  . 

AVisdom  of  the  great  painter  . 

On  designs  by  Leech 
Excuses  for  the  rising  generation 
Things  to  be  remembered  for 
Pony-chaise  accident 
Strenuous  idleness 


240 

241 
241 

241 

242 
242 

242 

243 


243 

243 

244 

244 

24s 

245 

246 
246 

246 

247 

247 

248 
248 


II.  Pages  232—243. 
DOilBEY  AND  Son. 
1846 — 1848. 


Drift  of  the  tale 

• 232 

Alistakes  of  critics 

• 232 

Characters  as  first  designed  . 

• 233 

“ Stock  of  the  Soup”  .... 

• 233 

Six  pages  too  much  .... 

• 234 

Chapter  written  and  rejected 

• 234 

Artist-fancies  for  Air.  Dombey 

235—6 

Dickens  and  illustrators 

• 235 

Silly  story  again  refuted 

• 236 

Dickens  to  Cruikshank  ( 1 838) 

• 237 

A masterpiece  of  writing 

• . 238 

Parallel  from  the  Past  .... 

■ 23S 

A reading  of  second  number  * . 

. 239 

The  real  Airs.  Pipchin  .... 

• 239 

First  thought  of  autobiography 

. . 240 

At  Brighton  ........  249 

At  Broadstairs 249 

At  Bonchurch  . ■ 249 

The  Reverend  James  AVhite 249 

Talfourd  made  a judge  ......  250 

Dinners  and  pic-nics 250 

The  comedian  Regnier 25 1 

A startling  revelation  . . . . . .251 

Effects  of  Bonchurch  climate  . . . -251 

Other  side  of  the  picture  .....  252 

Illness  of  Leech  . . . . . . . 252 

Again  at  Broadstairs 253 

The  E.xhibition  year  ......  253 

Reading  and  criticising 253 


IV.  Pages  254—258. 

Christmas  Books  closed  and  Household  Words 

BEGUN. 

1848 — 1850. 

Last  Christmas  Book 254 


I 


I 


XU 

TABLE  OF 

CONTENT'S. 

PAGE 

PAGE 

Tcacliings  of  the  little  tale 

• 255 

Mazzini  and  Edinburgh  friends 

. 267 

Respective  sales  of  noveE 

• 255 

Artist-acquaintance  and  visitors 

. 267 

Pickwick  in  Russian 

• 256 

Literature  and  art  in  the  city 

. 268 

The  Periodical  taking  form  . 

• 256 

A hint  for  London  citizens  . . . • . 

. 268 

A design  for  it  described 

• 256 

Letter  against  public  executions 

. 268 

New  design  chosen 

• 257 

A letter  from  Rockingham  .... 

. 269 

Selection  of  a title 

• 257 

Private  theatricals  ..... 

. 269 

Appearance  of  first  number  . 

• 257 

Death  of  Francis  Jeffrey  .... 

. 270 

W'ant  in  it  supplied 

• 258 

Progress  of  work 

. 270 

A fancy  derived  from  childhood 

. . . 258 

A third  daughter  bom 

. 270 

V.  Pages  258 — 261. 

In  aid  of  Literatuke  and  Art 

1850 — 1852. 

Origin  of  Guild 
lifforts  to  establish  it 
The  Duke  of  Devonshire 
Edward  Lord  Lytton 
Performance  of  comedy 
Provincial  tour 
Managerial  troubles 
Dinner  at  Manchester  . 

VI.  Pages  261 — 274. 

Last  Years  in  Devonshire  Terrace. 
1848 — 1851. 


258 

258 

259 

259 

259 

2 bo 

260 

261 


Sentiment  about  places 

261 

At  eldest  sister’s  sick-bed 

. 261 

Book  to  be  written  in  first  person  . 

. 262 

First  sees  Yarmouth 

. 262 

Birth  of  sixth  son  .... 

• 263 

At  a loss  for  a title 

• 263 

“ Copperfield  ” chosen  . 

. 264 

Difficulties  at  beginning 

. 264 

Festivities  and  friends  . 

. 264 

.Dinner  to  Halevy  and  Scribe 

• 265 

The  Duke  at  VauxhaU  . 

• 265 

Carlyle  and  Thackeray  . 

■ 265 

Marryat  and  MUnes 

. 266 

Lords  Nugent  and  Dudley  Stuart  . 

. 266 

Kemble,  Harness,  and  Dyce  . 

2G6 

BOOK  SEVENTH.— CC 
1852—1856. 
Pages 

I.  Pages  280 — 285. 

Bleak  House  and  H.vrd 

Times. 

1851-1854. 

Contrast  of  Esther  and  David 

. 281 

Defects  and  merits  of  Bleak  House 

. 281 

Constructive  art  . 

. 281 

Sets-off  and  .successes  . 

282 

Praise  with  a gmdge 

. 282 

The  contact  of  extremes 

• 283 

Originals  of  Chancery  abuses 
Truth  of  Gridley’s  case  . 

. 283 

. 283 

A story  for  his  periodical 

. 284 

Difficulties  of  weekly  parts 

. 284 

Mr.  Ruskin  on  Hard  Times  . 

. 284 

Horse-riding  scenes 

. 285 

A strike  at  Preston 

. 285 

At  Great  Malvern 
Death  of  John  Dickens 
Tribute  by  his  son 
Theatrical-fund  dinner  . 
Death  of  little  daughter 
Dora’s  grave  . 

Advocating  sanitary  reform 
Lord  Shaftesbury  . 

A Copperfield  banquet  . 
Thoughts  of  a new  book 
Pencil  sketch  by  MacHse 


VII.  Pages  274 — 280. 
David  Copperfield. 
1850—1853. 
Truth  of  Copperfield  to  its  author 
Real  people  in  novels  . 

Earlier  and  later  methods 
Boythorn  and  Skimpole 
As  to  Leigh  Hunt 
Relatives  put  into  books 
Scott  and  his  father 
Dickens  and  his  father  . 

Original  of  Micawber 
Dickens  and  David 
Dangers  of  autobiography 
Design  of  leading  character 
Why  books  continue 
Things  not  to  be  forgotten 
The  two  heroines  . 

A personal  experience  . 


II.  Pages  285 — 2QO. 
Home  Incidents. 
1853—1854-1855. 

Grave  at  Highgate 


285 


HI.  Pages  290 — 297. 
.Switzerland  and  Italy. 

1853- 

■Swiss  people  ..... 
An  old  friend  . . • . 

Peschierc  and  its  owner 

On  the  way  to  Naples  .... 


270 

271 
271 

271 

272 

273 
273 
273 
273 

273 

274 


274 

275 

275 

276 
276 

276 

277 
277 

277 

278 
278 

278 

279 

279 

280 

281 


Last  child  born  .... 

. . . 285 

Tavistock  House  .... 

. 280 

Deaths  of  friends  .... 

. 286 

Publishing  agreements  . 

. 286 

Self-changes 

. . . 287 

First  public  re.adings 

. 287 

Paid  readings  opposed  . 

. 287 

Children’s  theatricals 

. 288 

Actors  big  .and  little 

. 288 

A Dmry-lane  performance 

. 289 

Mr.  Carlyle  and  Lord  Campbell 

. 289 

Peter  Cunningham 

. 289 

Outside  a workhouse 

. 289 

290 

290 

291 
291 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


PAGE 


A Greek  potentate  .... 

. 292 

Going  out  to  dinner 

. 292 

The  old  idle  Frenchman 

. 292 

Changes  and  friends  .... 

• 294 

The  puppets  at  Rome  .... 

• 294 

Malaria  and  desolation  .... 

• 294 

Again  in  Venice  . . . 

• 295 

Tintorettos  ...... 

• 296 

Liking  for  the  Sardinians  . . . 

. 296 

Neapolitans  in  exile  .... 

. 296 

Austrian  police  arrangements 

. 296 

IV.  Pages  297 — 304. 
Three  Summers  at  Boulogne. 
1853,  1854,  and  1856. 

Visits  to  France  ...... 

• 297 

First  residence  in  Boulogne  . 

■ 297 

Villa  des  Moulineaux  .... 

• 297 

Doll’s  house  and  landlord 

. 298 

Making  the  most  of  it  . 

. 298 

Pride  in  the  Property  .... 

. 298 

Pictures  at  the  pig-market 

• 299 

Change  of  Hlla  ( 1854)  .... 

• 300 

Visit  of  Prince  Albert  .... 

• 300 

Emperor,  Prince,  and  Dickens 
“Like  boxing” 

• 300 

• 301 

A French  conjuror  .... 

• 301 

Conjuror’s  compliment  and  vision  . 

• 302 

Old  cottage  resumed  ( 1856)  . 

• 302 

Last  of  the  camp 

'■  302 

A household  war 

• 303 

PACK 

Death  of  Gilbert  A’Beckett  .....  303 

Leaving  for  England 303 

V.  Pages  304—314. 

Residence  in  Paris. 

1855—1856. 

How  Paris  life  passed  . 

Actors  and  dramas 
Frederic  Lemaitre 
Ary  Scheffer  and  Daniel  Manin 
Unpopularity  of  war 
Acting  at  the  Fran^ais  . 

Paradise  Lost  at  the  Ambigu 
h'rench  As  You  Like  It 
Story  of  a French  drama 
A delightful  “ tag  ” 

Auber  and  Queen  Victoria  . 

Scribe  and  his  wife 
Viardot  and  Georges  Sand 
Banquet  at  Girardin’s  . 

All  about  it  . 

Bourse  and  its  victims  . 

Entry  of  troops  from  Crimea 
Streets  on  New  Year’s  Day  . 

Enghsh  ond  French  art 
Sitting  to  Ary  Scheffer 
Scheffer  as  to  the  likeness 
A duchess  murdered 
Singular  scenes  described 
What  became  of  the  actors  . 


304 

304 

305 
305 

305 

306 

307 
307 

307 

308 
308 

308 

309 

309 

310 
310 
310 

310 

311 

312 

313 
313 

2 T -? 


BOOK  EIGHTH.— PUBLIC  READER. 
1856—1867.  JEt.  44—55- 


Pages  314— 357- 


I.  Pages  314— 321. 

Little  Dorrit,  and  a Lazy  Tour. 
1855—1857. 

Watts’s  Rochester  charity  .... 

Tablet  to  Dickens  in  Cathedral 

Nobody's  Fault  ...... 

Number-Plan  of  Copperjield  .... 

Number-Plan  of  Dorrit ..... 

Circumlocution  Office 

Flora  and  Mr.  F ..... 

Episodes  in  novels 

A scene  of  boy-trials  ..... 

Christmas  theatricals  . . 

Theatre-making  ...... 

Douglas  Jerrold’s  death  '.  . . . 

Exertions  and  result 

Lazy  Tour  projected 

Up  and  down  Carrick  Fell  .... 

At  Wigton  and  AUonby  .... 
The  Yorkshire  landlady  .... 
Doncaster  in  race  week 


314 

314 

314 

3G 

316 

316 

317 
317 

317 

318 

319 
319 

319 

320 
320 

320 

321 
321 


II.  Pages  321 — 328. 

What  Happened  at  this  Time. 
1857—1858. 

Disappointments  and  distastes 
What  we  seem  and  what  we  are  . 

Misgivings 


A defect  not  without  merit  . 

Reply  to  a remonstrance 
One  happiness  missed  . 

Confidences  ..... 

Rejoinder  to  a reply 

What  the  world  cannot  give  . 

An  old  project  revived  . 

Shakespeare  on  acting  . 

Charities  of  the  very  poor 
Appeal  for  sick  children 
Reading  for  Child’s  Hospital 
Proposal  for  paid  readings 
First  rough  plan  .... 
Separation  from  Mrs.  Dickens 
What  alone  concerned  the  public  . 

III.  Pages  328—335. 
Gadshill  Place. 
1856 — 1870. 

First  impression  .... 
Negotiations  for  purchase 
View  of  Gadshill  Place  . 

Becomes  his  home 
Gadshill  a century  ago  . 

Greeting  to  visitors 

Gradual  additions  .... 

Gift  from  Mr.  Fechter  . 

The  chalet  ..... 
Leaves  Tavistock  House 
Last  improvements 


• 323 

• 323 

• 323 

• 324 

• 324 

• 325 

• 325 

• 325 

• 326 

• 326 

• 327 

• 327 


328 

328 

328 


• 328 

• 329 

• 329 

• 330 

• 330 

• 33a 

• 331 

• 331 

• 332 

• 332 

• 332 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


Visits  of  friends 
Dickens’s  dogs 
Linda  and  Mrs.  Bouncer 
F avourite  walks 
The  Study  and  chair 


PACK 

333 

333 

334 
334 
334 


VI.  Pages  344— 350- 
Second  Series  of  Readings. 
1861—1863. 


IV.  Pages  335— 339- 
First  Paid  Readings. 
1858—1859. 


Various  managements  .... 

- 335 

One  day’s  work  ..... 

- 335 

Impressions  of  Dublin  .... 

- 335 

Irish  girls  ...... 

- 336 

Railway  ride  to  Belfast  .... 

- - 336 

Yorkshire  audiences  .... 

- 337 

Brought  near  his  Fame  .... 

- 337 

Greeting  in  Manchester 

- 337 

At  Edinburgh  ..... 

- 337 

Scotch  audiences 

- 338 

'When  most  successful  in  reading  . 

- - 338 

At  public  meetings  .... 

- - 338 

Landseer  on  Frith’s  portrait  . 

- 339 

Daughter’s  marriage 
Charles  Allston  Collins  . 
Sale  of  Tavistock  House 
Brother  Alfred’s  death  . 
Various  readings  . 

New  subjects  for  readings 
Death  of  Mr.  Arthur  Smith 
Death  of  Mr.  Henry  Austin 
Eldest  son’s  maniage  . 

At  Canterbury  and  Dover 
Alarming  scene 
Adventures  in  Scotland 
At  Torquay  . 

Writing  or  Reading 
For  and  against  Australia 
Exiled  ex-potentate 


VII.  Pages  350—357. 
Third  Series  of  Readings. 
1864 — 1867. 


345 

346 

346 

346 

346 

347 
347 
347 

347 

348 
348 

348 

349 
349 
349 

350' 


V.  Pages  339— 344- 

Death  of  Thackeray 
Mother’s  and  second  son’s  death 

- 350 

• 35^ 

All  the  Year  Round  and  Uncommercial 

Interest  in  Mr.  Fechter 

- 351 

Traveller. 

Death  of  John  Leech 

- 352 

1859—1861. 

Staplehurst  accident 
Enters  on  new  readings 

- 352 

- 352 

Household  Words  discontinued  .... 

Unfitness  for  the  labour 

- 352 

Earliest  and  latest  publishers  .... 

339 

Last  meeting  with  Mrs.  Carlyle 

- 353 

A title  for  new  periodical 

341 

Grave  warnings 

- 354 

Pinergetic  beginnings 

341 

In  Scotland  .... 

- 354 

Successful  start 

34' 

Exertion  and  its  result  . 

- 354 

At  Knebworth 

342 

An  old  malady 

- 355 

Commercial  Travellers’  schools  .... 

342 

Scene  at  Tynemouth 

- 355 

A Traveller  for  human  interests  .... 

343 

In  Dublin  with  the  Fenians  . 

• 355 

Personal  references  in  writing  .... 

343 

Yielding  to  temptation  . 

- 356 

Birds  and  low  company  ...... 

343 

Pressure  from  America  . 

- 356 

An  incident  of  Doughty-street  .... 

344 

Warnings  unheeded 

- 357 

Offers  from  America 

344 

Decision  to  Go  . 

- 357 

I.  Pages  358—366. 
Dickens  as  a Novelist, 
1836—1870. 

See  before  you  oversee  . 

M.  Taine’s  criticism 
A popularity  explained  . 

Natio'nal  excuses  for  Dickens 
Comparison  with  Balzac 
Anticipatory  reply  to  M.  Tainc 
A critic  in  the  Fortnightly  Review 
Blame  and  praise  to  be  reconciled 
Vain  critical  warnings  . 

An  opinion  on  the  Micawbers 
Hallucinative  phenomena 
Claim  to  be  fairly  judged 
Dickens’s  leading  quality 
Dangers  incident  to  Humour 
Mastery  of  dialogue 
Character-drawing 


BOOK  NINTH.— AUTHOR. 

1836 — 1870.  Hlt.  24 — 58. 

Pages  358—385- 

Fielding  and  Dickens  . 

Touching  of  extremes  . 

Why  the  creations  of  fiction  live  . 
Temptations  to  all  great  humourists 
A word  for  fanciful  description 

II.  Pages  366—368. 
The  Tale  of  Two  Cities. 
1857—8—9. 

Origin  of  Tale 
Spcci.ality  in  treatment  . 

Reply  to  objections 
Care  with  which  Dickens  worked 
An  American  critic 


358 

358 

359 
359 

359 

360 
360 

360 

361 

362 
362 

362 

363 
363 
363 


HI.  I’agcs  36S— 371. 
Great  Expectations. 
1860—1861. 

Germ  of  the  sloiy 

Another  boy-child  for  hero  . 


3C4 

364 

365 

366 
366 


366 

367 
367 

367 

368 


368 

3C9 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


XV 


PACE 

Unlikeness  in  likeness 3^9 

Masterly  drawing  of  character  ....  3*^9 

A d.ay  on  the  Thames 37° 

Homely  and  shrewd  satire  .....  37° 

Incident  changed  for  Lord  Lytton  . . . 37° 

As  originally  written 37 ^ 


IV.  Page  371. 

Christmas  Sketches. 

1862,  1863,  1864. 

■Mrs.  Lirriper ' 37^ 

V.  Pages  371— 374. 

Our  Mutual  Friend. 

1864 — 1865. 


First  notion 37 ^ 

AVriting  numbers  in  advance  ....  372 

AVorking  slowly 373 

Staplehurst  accident 373 

Effects  on  himself  and  novel 373 

First  and  Last 374 


AT.  Pages  374,  375. 

Dr.  Marigold’s  Prescriptions. 
1865. 

A cheap  Jack 

Minor  stories 


ATI.  Pages  375—382 
Hints  for  Books  AVritten  and 

Unwritten. 

1855—1865. 

Book  of  MS.  Memoranda 

PAGE 

• 375 

Fancies  put  into  books  . 

• 375 

Suggestions  worked  out 

• 37h 

Hints  for  last  completed  book 

• 376 

First  thought  better  than  second  . 

• 377 

Fancies  never  used 

• 377 

Ideas  not  carried  out 

• 377 

Domestic  subjects  . . ' . 

.•  377 

Characters  of  women 

• 378 

Other  female  groups 

• 378 

Uncle  Sam 

• 379 

Striking  thoughts  .... 

• 379 

Subjects  not  accomplished 

• 379 

Characters  laid  aside 

• 380 

Titles  for  stories  .... 

. 381 

Names  for  girls  and  boys 

. 381 

An  undistinguished  crowd 
Mr.  Brobity’s  snuff-bo.x 

. 381 

. 382 

VIII.  Pages  382—385. 
Closing  AVord. 


374 

375 


1836—1870. 

Fieedless  classifications  . 

Purity  of  Dickens’s  Avritings  . 
Substitute  for  alleged  deficiency 
Letters  from  America  . 
Companions  for  solitude 


382 

382 

383 
383 
385 


BOOK  TENTH.— AMERICA  REVISITED. 

1867 — 1868.  Nt.  55 — 56. 


I.  Pages  385—391. 
November  and  December. 

1867. 

AVarmth  of  the  greeting 

Old  and  new  friends  .... 

Changes  since  1842  .... 

First  Boston  reading  .... 

Scene  at  New  York  sales 

First  NeAV  York  reading 

A fire  at  his  hotel 

Local  and  general  politics 

Railway  and  police  .... 

As  to  newspapers 

Nothing  lasts  long  .... 

Scene  of  a murder  visited 
Illness  and  abstinence  .... 
Miseries  of  American  travel  . 

II.  Pages  391—403. 
January  to  April. 

1868. 

Speculators  and  public  .... 
The  labour  and  the  gain 


Pages  385—403. 


385 

386 
386 

386 

387 
387 

387 

388 

388 

389 

389 

390 

390 

391 


• 391 

• 391 


A scene  at  Brooklyn 
“ Trifling  ” journeys 
“ Looking  up  the  judge  ” 
Improved  social  ways  . 

Result  of  thirty-four  readings 
Baltimore  and  AVashington  . 
Success  in  Philadelphia 
Objections  to  coloured  people 
AVith  Sumner  at  AVashington 
President  Lincoln’s  dream 
Interview  with  President  Johnson 
AVashington  audiences  . 

Incident  before  a reading 
Newhaven  and  Providence 
Political  excitements 
Struggles  for  tickets 
Sherry  to  “ slop  round  ” with 
Final  impression  of  Niagara  . 
Letter  to  Mr.  Ou\Ty 
“ Getting  along  ” through  water 
Again  attacked  by  lameness  . 

All  but  used  up  . . . 

Last  Boston  readings 
New  York  farewells 
The  receipts  throughout 
The  Adieu  .... 


• 392 

• 392 

• 393 
- 393 

• 394 

• 394 
. 394 
. 395 
. 395 

. 396 
. 396 
. 396 
. 396 
. 398 

• 399 

• 399 
. 400 
. 400 

• 400 
. 401 
. 401 

. 401  i 
. 402 
. 402  I 
. 402 

• 403 


XVI 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


BOOK 

ELEVENTH. 

I.  Pages  403 — 408. 
Last  Readings. 
1868. 

Health  apparently  improved  . 

1868 — 1870. 
Pages  4 

PAGE 

• 403 

Expenses  and  gains  in  America 

• 404 

Noticeable  changes  in  Dickens 

• 404 

The  Oliver  Twist  reading 

• 404 

Death  of  Frederick  Dickens  . 

• 405 

Another  attack  of  illness 

• 405 

A doctor’s  difference 

. 406 

At  Emerson  Tennent’s  funeral 

. 406 

The  illness  at  Preston  . 

. 406 

Brought  to  London 

. 407 

Sir  Thomas  Watson  consulted 

• 407 

His  note  of  the  case 

• 407 

II.  Pages  408 — 414 
Last  Book. 
1869 — 1870. 

The  agreement  for  Edwin  Drood  . 

. 408 

Story  as  planned  in  his  mind 

. 408 

Merits  of  the  fragment  . 

. 409 

Comparison  of  early  and  late  MSS. 

. 409 

Discovery  of  an  unpublished  scene 

. 410 

Last  page  of  Drood  in  fac-simile  . 

. 410 

Page  of  Oliver  Twist  in  fac-simile 

. 4II 

Delightful  specimen  of  Dickens 

. 411 

Unpublished  scene  for  Drood 

• 412— 414 

III.  Pages  414 — 428. 
Personal  Characteristics. 
1836 — 1870. 

Dickens  not  a bookish  man  . 


414 


Books  and  their  critics  . 

Fault  not  consciously  committed 
Lord  Russell  on  Dickens 
Undergoing  popularity  . 

Letter  to  youngest  son  . 

As  to  prayer  .... 
Religious  views 

Objections  to  posthumous  honour: 
Vanity  of  human  hopes  . 
Editorship  of  his  weekly  serials 
Work  for  his  contributors 
Editorial  troubles  and  pleasures 
Help  to  younger  novelists 
Adelaide  Procter’s  poetry 
The  effects  of  periodical  writing 
Political  opinions  . 

Reforms  he  thought  necessary 
People  governing  and  governed 
Alleged  offers  from  her  Majesty 
The  Queen  sees  him  act  (1857) 
Desires  to  hear  him  read  (1858) 
Interview  at  the  Palace  (1870) 
What  passed  at  the  interview 
A hope  at  the  close  of  life 
Games  in  GadshiU  meadow  . 
Habits  of  life  everywhere 
Street  walks  and  London  haunts 
The  first  attack  of  lameness  . 
Why  right  things  to  be  done 
Silent  heroisms 
At  social  meetings 
Puns  and  pleasantries 
Unlucky  hits  . 

Ghost  stories  . 

Tribute  from  the  IMaster  of  Balliol 


PAGE 

414 

414 

4*5 

415 

4'S 

416 
416 

416 

417 
417 

417 

418 
418 

418 

419 

419 

420 

420 

421 
421 

421 

422 
422 

422 

423 
423 
425 

425 

426 
426 

426 

427 
427 

427 

428 


BOOK  TWELFTH.— THE  CLOSE. 

1870.  58. 

Pages  428—434. 


I.  Pages  428—433. 
Last  Days. 
1869—1870. 


Last  summer  and  autumn 

. 428 

His  .son  Henry’s  scholarship  . 

• 430 

Twelve  more  readings  .... 

■ 430 

Medical  attendance  at  them  . 

• 4.30 

Excitement  incident  to  them 

• 430 

The  Farewell  ..... 

• 43> 

Last  public  appearances 

• 43J 

At  Royal  Academy  dinner  . 

• 432 

Eulogy  of  Daniel  Maclise 

■ 432 

Return  of  illness  ..... 

• 432 

Our  last  meeting 

••  432 

A noteworthy  incident  . , . . . . 432 

Final  days  at  r ^adshill 433 

Wednesday  the  8th  of  June  .....  433 

Last  piece  of  writing 433 


11.  Page  434. 
We.stminster  Abbey. 


1870. 

The  8th  and  9th  of  June  .....  434 

The  general  grief 434 

The  burial  . . . ...  . . . 434 

Unbidden  mourners 434 

The  grave 434 


The  Will  oe  Charles  Dickens 
INDEX 


APPENDIX. 


435 

437 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

portrait  of  CHARLES  DICKENS  (STEEL  ENGRAVING) Frontispiece 

“ I SAY,  what’s  FRENCH  FOR  A PILLOW  ? ” “ IS  THERE  ANY  ITALIAN  PHRASE  FOR  A LUMP  OF  SUGAR  ? 

JUST  LOOK,  WILL  YOU  ? ” “ WHAT  THE  DEVIL  DOES  ECHO  MEAN  ? THE  GARSONG  SAYS  ECHO  TO 

everything!” To  face  page  173 

A WARM  CORNER  IN  THE  PIG  MARKET  AT  BOULOGNE . 290 


Vignette, 


ILLUSTRATIONS  IN  THE  TEXT. 

PAGE  I 

Rosemont,  Lausanne  . 


PAGE 

. 190 


“ If  he  weakly  showed  the  least  disposition  to  hear 
it.  Captain  Porter,  in  a loud  sonorous  voice, 
gave  him  every  word  of  it  ” . . . . i 

“ One  of  whom  told  us  she  ‘ had  no  money  for 

beggar  boys  ’ ” 21 


“ I have  never  been  able  to  see  what  they  are, 
because  one  of  the  old  ladies  always  sits  before 
them  ; but  they  look,  outside.  Idee  very  old 
backgammon  boards  ” . . . . • 205 

Reading  Domhey  at  the  Snuff-shop  . . . 224 


“Jack  Straw’s-castle,  memorable  for  many  happy 

meetings  in  coming  years  ” . . . . 37 

“ It  a’nt  a smokin’  your  way  sir,  I says  ; well,  he 
says,  no  more  it  is,  coachman,  and  as  long  as 
it  smokes  anybody  else’s  way,  it’s  all  right  and 
I’m  agreeable  ” 65 

“If  you  could  but  know  how  I hated  one  man  in 
very  duly  gaiters,  and  with  very  protruding 
upper  teeth,  who  said  to  all  comers  after  him, 

‘ So  you’ve  been  introduced  to  our  friend 


Dickens — eh  .88 

“ He  looked  up  at  me ; gave  himself  an  odd, 
dogged  kind  of  shake  ; and  fixed  his  eyes  on 
his  book  again  ” 10 1 

“ He  is  perhaps  the  most  horrible  bore  in  this 

country” 112 

Visit  to  a Tramps’  Lodging-house  . . .128 

Sketch  of  the  VUla  BagnereUo  (Albarol  . .154 

Genoese  Washerwomen 157 

Drawing  of  the  Palazzo  Peschiere  (Genoa)  . . 161 


“ Halloa,  IMrs.  Gamp,  what  are  you  up  to  ! ” . 228 

Seventeen  “ Fancies  ” for  Mr.  Dombey  . . 235 

Twelve  more  similar  Fancies  ....  236 

Off  Yarmouth  . . ....  264 

“ Likewise  an  old  man  who  ran  over  a milk-child, 
rather  than  stop  ! — with  no  neckcloth,  on  prin- 
ciple ; and  with  his  mouth  wide  open  to  catch 
the  morning  air  ” . . . . . . 272 

Devonshire  Terrace  ......  274 

Tavistock  House  .......  286 


“ Bye  and  bye,  I came  upon  a polenta-shop  in  the 
clouds,  where  an  old  Frenchman  with  an  um- 
brella like  a faded  tropical  leaf  (it  had  not 
rained  in  Naples  for  six  weeks)  was  staring  at 
nothing  at  all,  with  a snuff-box  in  his  hand  ” . 293 

“ C’est  vrai  done,”  says  the  Duke,  “que  Madame 
la  Duchesse  n’est  plus?” — “C’est  trop  vrai, 
Monseigneur.” — “ Tant  mieux,”  says  the 
Duke,  and  walks  off  deliberately,  to  the  great 
satisfaction  of  the  assemblage  . . .312 


The  Radicofani  Wizard 


176  The  Porch  at  Gadshill 


329 


Neapolitan  Lazzarotii  . 


177  I The  Chalet 


332 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


I’AGE 

House  and  Conservatory.  From  the  Meadow  . 333 

The  Study  at  Gadshill 334 

“ Whenever  he  felt  Toots  coming  again,  he  began 
to  laugh  and  wipe  his  eyes  afresh  ; and  when 
Toots  came  once  more,  he  gave  a kind  of  cry, 
as  if  it  were  too  much  for  him  ” . . . 340 

“He  ....  slightly  cocked  up  his  evil  eye  at  the 
goldfinch.  Instantly  a raging  thirst  beset  that 
bird  ; and  when  it  was  appeased,  he  still  drew 
several  unnecessary  buckets  of  water,  leaping 
about  his  perch  and  sharpening  his  bill  with 
irrepressible  satisfaction  ” . . . . 345 

“ The  uneducated  father  in  fustian  and  the  edu- 
cated boy  in  spectacles  ” ....  372 


PAGE 

Sam  Weller  in  Sierra  Nevada  ....  38+ 

“In  a transport  of  presence  of  mind  and  fury,  he 
instantly  caught  him  up  in  both  hands,  and 
threw  him  over  his  own  head  out  into  the 
entry,  where  the  check-takers  received  him 
like  a game  at  ball  ” 397 

“ I beg  your  pardon,  sir,”  he  answered,  “ but  if  it 
hadn’t  been  for  my  pipe,  I should  have  been 
nowhere” 424 

“In  a miserable  court  at  night,”  says  Mr.  Fields, 

“ we  found  a haggard  old  woman  blowing  at 
a kind  of  pipe  made  of  an  old  ink-bottle  ” . 429 


■“  IF  HE  WEAKLY  SHOWED  THE  LEAST  DISPOSITION  TO  HEAR  IT,  CAPTAIN  PORTER,  IN  A LOUD  SONOROUS 

VOICE,  GAVE  HIM  EVERY  WORD  OF  IT.” 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


BOOK  FIRST.— CHILDHOOD  AND  YOUTH. 

1812 — 1836.  JEt.  I — 24. 

I.  Earliest  Years.  I III.  School  Days  and  Start  in  Life.  r 

II.  Hard  Experiences  in  Boyhood.  | IV.  Newspaper  Reporting  and  Writing.  ’ 

V.  First  Book,  and  Origin  of  Pickwick. 


pay  office,  was  at  this  time  stationed  in  the 
Portsmouth  dockyard.  He  had  made  acquaint- 
ance with  the  lady,  Elizabeth  Barrow,  who 
became  afterwards  his  wife,  through  her  elder 
brother,  Thomas  Barrow,  also  engaged  on  the 
establishment  at  Somerset-house ; and  she 
bore  him  in  all  a family  of  eight  children,  of 
whom  two  died  in  infancy.  The  eldest,  Fanny 
(born  1810),  was  followed  by  Charles  (entered 
in  the  baptismal  register  of  Portsea  as  Charles 


I. 

EARLIEST  YEARS. 

1812 — 1822. 

. .j^HARLES  DICKENS,  the  most  popular 
novelist  of  the  century,  and  one  of  the 
greatest  humourists  that  England  has  produced, 
was  born  at  Landport  in  Portsea  on  Friday,  the 
seventh  of  February,  1812. 

His  father,  John  Dickens,  a clerk  in  thenavy- 
Life  of  Charles  Dickens,  i. 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


John  Huff  ham,  though  on  the  very  rare  occasions 
when  he  subscribed  that  name  he  wrote  Huffam) ; 
by  another  son,  named  Alfred,  who  died  in 
childhood;  by  Letitia  (born  i8i6);  by  another 
daughter,  Harriet,  who  died  also  in  childhood  ; 
by  Frederick  (born  1820);  by  Alfred  Lamert 
(born  1822);  and  by  Augustus  (born  1827);  of 
all  of  whom  only  the  second  daughter  now  sur- 
vives. 

Walter  Scott  tells  us,  in  his  fragment  of  auto- 
biography, speaking  of  the  strange  remedies 
applied  to  his  lameness,  that  he  remembered 
lying  on  the  floor  in  the  parlour  of  his  grand- 
father’s farm-house,  swathed  up  in  a sheepskin 
warm  from  the  body  of  the  sheep,  being  then  not 
three  years  old.  David  Copperfield’s  memory 
goes  beyond  this.  He  represents  himself  seeing 
so  far  back  into  the  blank  of  his  infancy,  as  to 
discern  therein  his  mother  and  her  servant, 
dwarfed  to  his  sight  by  stooping  down  or 
kneeling  on  the  floor,  and  himself  going  un- 
steadily from  the  one  to  the  other.  He  admits 
this  may  be  fancy,  though  he  believes  the  power 
of  observation  in  numbers  of  very  young  children 
to  be  quite  wonderful  for  its  closeness  and  accu- 
racy, and  thinks  that  the  recollection  of  most  of 
us  can  go  farther  back  into  such  times  than  many 
of  us  suppose.  But  what  he  adds  is  certainly 
not  fancy.  “ If  it  should  appear  from  anything 
I may  set  down  in  this  narrative  that  I was  a 
child  of  close  observation,  or  that  as  a man  I 
-have  a strong  memory  of  my  childhood,  I un- 
doubtedly lay  claim  to  both  of  these  character- 
istics.” Applicable  as  it  might  be  to  David 
Copperfield,  this  was  unaffectedly  true  of  Charles 
Dickens. 

He  has  often  told  me  that  he  remembered  the 
small  front  garden  to  the  house  at  Portsea,  from 
which  he  was  taken  away  when  he  was  two  years 
old,  and  where,  watched  by  a nurse  through  a 
low  kitchen-window  almost  level  with  the  gravel- 
waUv,  he  trotted  about  with  something  to  eat, 
and  his  little  elder  sister  with  him.  He  was 
carried  from  the  garden  one  day  to  see  the 
soldiers  exercise ; and  I perfectly  recollect,  that 
on  our  being  at  Portsmouth  together  while  he 
was  writing  NicJdcby,  he  recognised  the  exact 
shape  of  the  military  parade  seen  by  him  as  a 
very  infant,  on  the  same  spot,  a quarter  of  a 
century  before. 

When  his  father  was  .again  brought  up  by  his 
duties  to  London  from  Portsmouth,  they  went 
into  lodgings  in  Norfolk-street,  Middlesex-hos- 
pital ; and  it  lived  also  in  the  child’s  memory 
that  they  had  come  away  from  Portsea  in  the 
snow.  Their  home,  shortly  after,  was  again 
changed,  on  the  elder  Dickens  being  placed  upon 


duty  in  Chatham  dockyard ; and  the  house 
where  he  lived  in  Chatham,  which  had  a plain- 
looking, whitewashed  plaster-front  and  a small 
garden  before  and  behind,  was  in  St.  Mary’s- 
place,  otherwise  called  the  Brook,  and  next  door 
to  a Baptist  meeting-house  called  Providence- 
chapel  of  which  a Mr.  Giles  to  be  presently 
mentioned  was  minister.  Charles  at  this  time 
was  between  four  and  five  years  old ; and  here 
he  stayed  till  he  was  nine.  Here  the  most  dur- 
able of  his  early  impressions  were  received  ; and 
the  associations  that  were  around  him  when  he 
died,  were  those  which  at  the  outset  of  his  life 
had  affected  him  most  strongly. 

The  house  called  Gadshill-place  stands  on  the 
strip  of  highest  ground  in  the  main  road  between 
Rochester  and  Gravesend.  Very  often  had  we 
travelled  past  it  together,  many  years  before  it 
became  his  home ; and  never  without  some  allu- 
sion to  what  he  told  me  when  first  I saw  it  in 
his  company,  that  amid  the  recollections  con- 
nected with  his  childhood  it  held  always  a pro- 
minent place,  for,  upon  first  seeing  it  as  he  came 
from  Chatham  with  his  father,  and  looking  up  at 
it  with  much  admiration,  he  had  been  promised  . 
that  he  might  himself  live  in  it  or  in  some  such  ' 
house  when  he  came  to  be  a man,  if  he  would 
only  work  hard  enough.  AVhich  for  a long  time 
was  his  ambition.  The  story  is  a pleasant  one, 
and  receives  authentication  at  the  opening  of 
one  of  his  essays  on  travelling  abroad,  when  as 
he  passes  along  the  road  to  Canterbury  there 
crosses  it  a vision  of  his  former  self. 

“ So  smooth  was  the  old  high  road,  and  sa 
fresh  were  the  horses,  and  so  fast  went  I,  that  it 
was  midway  between  Gravesend  and  Rochester,, 
and  the  widening  river, was  bearing  the  ships, 
white-sailed  or  black-smoked,  out  to  sea,  when 
I noticed  by  the  wayside  a very  queer  small^ 
boy. 

“ ‘ Halloa  ! ’ said  I to  the  very  queer  small 
boy,  ‘ where  do  you  live  ? ’ 

’•  ‘ At  Chatham,’  says  he. 

“ ‘ What  do  you  do  there  ? ’ says  I. 

“ ‘ I go  to  school,’  says  he. 

“ I took  him  up  in  a moment,  and  we  went 
on.  Presently,  the  very  queer  small  boy  says, 

‘ This  is  Gadshill  we  are  coming  to,  where 
Falstaff  went  out  to  rob  those  travellers,  and  ran 
away.’ 

‘“You  know  something  about  Falstaff,  eh?’ 
said  I. 

“ ‘ All  about  him,’  said  the  very  queer  small 
boy.  ‘ I am  old  (I  am  nine),  and  1 read  al( 
sorts  of  books.  But  do  let  us  stop  at  the  toj)  ot 
the  hill,  and  look  at  the  house  there,  if  you 
please ! ’ 


EARLIEST  YEARS. 


3 


‘“You  admire  that  house?’  said  I. 

“ ‘ Bless  you,  sir,’  said  tlie  very  (lueer  small  boy, 
‘ when  I was  not  more  than  half  as  old  as  nine, 
it  used  to  be  a treat  for  me  to  be  brought  to 
look  at  it.  And  now  I am  nine,  I come  by  my- 
self to  look  at  it.  And  ever  since  I can  recol- 
lect, my  father,  seeing  me  so  fond  of  it,  has  often 
said  to  me.  If  you  were  to  be  very  fersmeritig,  and 
were  to  "work  hard,  you  might  some  day  come  to 
live  in  it.  Though  that’s  impossible  ! ’ said  the 
very  queer  small  boy,  drawing  a low  breath,  and 
now  staring  at  the  house  out  of  window  with  all 
his  might. 


“ I was  rather  amazed  to  be  told  this  by 
the  very  queer  small  boy ; for  that  house  hap- 
pens to  be  7ny  house,  and  I have  reason  to 
believe  that  what  he  said  was  true.” 

The  queer  small  boy  was  indeed  himself.  He 
was  a very  little  and  a very  sickly  boy.  He  was 
subject  to  attacks  of  violent  spasm  which  dis- 
abled him  for  any  active  exertion.  He  was 
never  a good  little  cricket-player;  he  was  never 
a first-rate  hand  at  marbles,  or  peg-top,  or  pri- 
soner’s base ; but  he  had  great  pleasure  in 
watching  the  other  boys,  officers’  sons  for  the 
most  part,  at  these  games,  reading  while  they 
played ; and  he  had  always  the  belief  that  this 
early  sickness  had  brought  to  himself  one  in- 
estimable advantage,  in  the  circumstance  of  his 
weak  health  having  strongly  inclined  him  to 
reading.  It  will  not  appear,  as  my  narrative 
moves  on,  that  he  owed  much  to  his  parents,  or 
was  other  than  in  his  first  letter  to  Washington 
Irving  he  described  himself  to  have  been,  a 
“very  small  and  not-over-particularly-taken-care- 
of  boy;”  but  he  has  frequently  been  heard  to 
say  that  his  first  desire  for  knowledge,  and  his 
eai  *ist  passion  for  reading,  were  awakened  by 
his  mother,  from  whom  he  learnt  the  rudiments 
not  only  of  English,  but  also,  a little  later,  of 
Latin.  She  taught  him  regularly  every  day  for 
a long  time,  and  taught  him,  he  was  convinced, 
thoroughly  well.  I once  put  to  him  a question 
in  connection  with  this  to  which  he  replied  in 
almost  exactly  the  words  he  placed  five  years 
later  in  the  mouth  of  David  Copperfield.  “I 
faintly  remember  her  teaching  me  the  alphabet ; 
and  when  I look  upon  the  fat  black  letters  in 
the  primer,  the  puzzling  novelty  of  their  shapes, 
W and  the  easy  good  nature  of  O and  S,  always 
/.f  ieem  po'  present  themselves  before  me  as  they 
^sed /o  do.” 


'L^’Enen  followed  the  preparatory  day-school,  a 
J/‘'  i^nool  for  girls  and  boys  to  which  he  went  with 
1 1, ^ his  sister  Fanny,  and  which  was  in  a place  called 
Rome  (pronounced  Room)  lane.  Revisiting 
Chatham  in  his  manhood,  and  looking  for  the 


place,  he  found  it  had  been  pulled  down  to 
make  a new  street  “ ages  ” before : but,  out  of 
the  distance  of  the  ages,  arose  nevertheless  a 
not  dim  impression,  that  it  had  been  over  a 
dyer’s  shop;  that  he  went  up  steps  to  it;  that 
he  h'ad  frequently  grazed  his  knees  in  doing  so ; 
and  that  in  trying  to  scrape  the  mud  off  a very 
unsteady  little  shoe,  he  generally  got  his  leg 
over  the  scraper.  Other  similar  memories  of 
childhood  have  dropped  from  him  occasionally 
in  his  lesser  writings ; whose  readers  may  re- 
member how  vividly  portions  of  his  boyhood  are 
reproduced  in  his  fancy  of  the  Christmas-tree, 
and  will  hardly  have  forgotten  what  he  says,  in 
his  thoughtful  little  paper  on  Nurse’s-stories, 
of  the  doubtful  places  and  people  to  which 
children  may  be  introduced  before  they  are  six 
years  old,  and  forced,  night  after  night,  to  go 
back  to  against  their  wills,  by  servants  to  whom 
they  are  entrusted.  That  childhood  exaggerates 
what  it  sees,  too,  has  he  not  tenderly  told? 
How  he  thought  the  Rochester  High-street  must 
be  at  least  as  wide  as  Regent-street,  which  he 
afterwards  discovered  to  be  little  better  than  a 
lane  ; how  the  public  clock  in  it,  supposed  to  be 
the  finest  clock  in  the  world,  turned  out  to  be  as 
moon-faced  and  weak  a clock  as  a man’s  eyes 
ever  saw;  and  how,  in  its  town-hall,  which  had 
appeared  to  him  once  so  glorious  a structure 
that  he  had  set  it  up  in  his  mind  as  the  model 
on  which  the  genie  of  the  lamp  built  the 
palace  for  Aladdin,  he  had  painfully  to  recognise 
a mere  mean  little  heap  of  bricks,  like  a chapel 
gone  demented.  Yet  not  so  painfully,  either, 
when  second  thoughts  wisely  came.  “ Ah ! who 
was  I that  I should  quarrel  with  the  town  for 
being  changed  to  me,  when  I myself  had  come 
back,  so  changed,  to  it  ? All  my  early  readings 
and  early  imaginations  dated  from  this  place, 
and  I took  them  away  so  full  of  innocent  con- 
struction and  guileless  belief,  and  I brought 
them  back  so  worn  and  torn,  so  much  the  wiser, 
and  so  much  the  worse  ! ” • 

And  here  I may  at  once  expressly  mention, 
what  already  has  been  hinted,  that  even  as 
Fielding  described  himself  and  his  belongings 
in  Captain  Booth  and  Amelia,  and  protested 
always  that  he  had  writ  in  his  books  nothing 
more  than  he  had  seen  in  life,  so  it  may  be  said 
of  Dickens  in  more  especial  relation  to  David 
Copperfield.  Many  guesses  have  been  made 
since  his  death,  connecting  David’s  autobio- 
graphy with  his  own  ; accounting,  by  means  of 
sucli  actual  experiences,  for  the  so  frequent  re- 
currence in  his  writings  of  the  prison-life,  its 
humour  and  pathos,  described  in  them  with  such 
wonderful  reality ; and  discovering,  in  what 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


4 


David  tells  Steerforth  at  school  of  the  stories  he 
had  read  in  his  childhood,  what  it  was  that  had 
given  the  bent  to  his  own  genius.  There  is  not 
only  truth  in  all  this,  but  it  will  very  shortly  be 
seen  that  the  identity  went  deeper  than  any  had 
supposed,  and  covered  experiences  not  less  start- 
ling in  the  reality  than  they  appear  to  be  in  the 
fiction. 

Of  the  “readings  ” and  “ imaginations  ” which 
he  describes  as  brought  away  from  Chatham, 
this  authority  can  tell  us.  It  is  one  of  the  many 
passages  in  Copperfidd  which  are  literally  true, 
and  its  proper  place  is  here.  “ My  father  had 
left  a small  collection  of  books  in  a little  room 
upstairs  to  which  I had  access  (for  it  adjoined 
my  own),  and  which  nobody  else  in  our  house 
ever  troubled.  From  that  blessed  little  room, 
Roderick  Random,  Peregrine  Pickle,  Humphrey 
^ Clinker,  Tom  Jones,  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  Don 
Quixote,  Gil  Bias,  and  Robinson  Crusoe  came 
out,  a glorious  host,  to  keep  me  company.  They 
kept  alive  my  fancy,  and  my  hope  of  something 
beyond  that  place  and  time, — they,  and  the 
Arabian  Nights,  and  the  Talcs  of  the  Genii, — 
and  did  me  no  harm  ; for,  whatever  harm  was  in 
some  of  them,  was  not  there  for  me ; I knew 
nothing  of  it.  It  is  astonishing  to  me  now,  how 
I -found  time,  in  the  midst  of  my  porings  and 
blunderings  over  heavier  themes,  to  read  those 
bsoks  as  I did.  It  is  curious  to  me  how  I could 
ever  have  consoled  myself  under  my  small 
troubles  (which  were  great  troubles  to  me),  by 
s.  impersonating  my  favourite  characters  in  them. 
....  I have  been  Tom  Jones  (a  child’s  Tom 
Jones,  a harmless  creature)  for  a week  together. 
I have  sustained  my  own  idea  of  Roderick  Ran- 
dom for  a month  at  a stretch,  I verily  believe. 
I had  a greedy  relish  for  a few  volumes  of  voy- 
ages and  travels — I forget  ^\■hat,  now — that  were 
on  those  shelves  ; and  for  days  and  days  I can 
remember  to  have  gone  about  my  region  of  our 
house,  armed  with  the  centre-piece  out  of  an 
\old  set  of  boot-trees  : the  perfect  realisation  of 
Captain  Somebody,  of  the  royal  British  navy,  in 
danger  of  being  beset  by  savages,  and  resolved 

to  sell  his  life  at  a great  price When  I 

think  of  it,  the  picture  always  rises  in  my  mind, 
of  a summer  evening,  the  boys  at  play  in  the 
V churchyard,  and  I sitting  on  my  bed,  reading  as 
if  for  life.  Every  barn  in  the  neighbourhood, 
every  stone  in  the  church,  and  every  foot  of  the 
churchyard,  had  some  association  of  its  own,  in 
my  mind,  connected  with  these  books,  and  stood 
for  some  locality  made  famous  in  them.  I have 
seen  Tom  Pipes  go  climbing  up  tlie  church- 
steeple  ; I have  watched  Strap,  witli  the  knaj)- 
sack  on  his  back,  stopping  to  rest  himself  upon 


the  wicket-gate ; and  I knoiv  that  Commodore 
Trunnion  held  that  club  with  Mr.  Pickle,  in  the 
parlour  of  our  little  village  alehouse.”  Every 
word  of  this  personal  recollection  had  been 
written  down  as  fact,  some  years  before  it  found 
its  way  into  David  Copperfidd;  the  only  change 
in  the  fiction  being  his  omission  of  the  name  of 
a cheap  series  of  novelists  then  in  course  of  pub- 
lication, by  means  of  which  his  father  had  be- 
come happily  the  owner  of  so  large  a lump  of 
literary  treasure  in  his  small  collection  of  books. 

The  usual  result  followed.  The  child  took  to 
writing,  himself;  and  became  famous  in  his 
childish  circle  for  having  written  a tragedy  called 
Misnar,  the  Sultan  of  India,  founded  (and  very 
literally  founded,  no  doubt)  on  one  of  the  Tales  ' 
of  the  Genii.  Nor  was  this  his  only  distinction. 

He  told  a story  offhand  so  well,  and  sang  small 
comic  songs  so  especially  well,  that  he  used  to 
be  elevated  on  chairs  and  tables,  both  at  home 
and  abroad,  for  more  effective  display  of  these  ''' 
talents ; and  when  he  first  told  me  of  this,  at 
one  of  the  twelfth-night  parties  on  his  eldest 
son’s  birthday,  he  said  he  never  recalled  it  that 
his  own  shrill  little  voice  of  childhood  did  not 
again  tingle  in  his  ears,  and  he  blushed  to  think 
what  a horrible  little  nuisance  he  must  have 
been  to  many  unoffending  grown-up  people  who 
were  called  upon  to  admire  him. 

His  chief  ally  and  encourager  in  such  displays 
was  a youth  of  some  ability,  much  older  than 
himself,  named  James  Lamert,  stepson  to  his 
mother’s  sister,  and  therefore  a sort  of  cousin, 
who  was  his  great  patron  and  friend  in  his 
childish  days.  Mary,  the  eldest  daughter  of 
Charles  Barrow,  himself  a lieutenant  in  the  navy, 
had  for  her  first  husband  a commander  in  the 
navy  called  Allen,  on  whose  death  by  drowning 
at  Rio  Janeiro  she  had  joined  her  sister,  the 
navy-pay  clerk’s  wife,  at  Chatham ; in  which 
place  she  subsequently  took  for  her  second  hus- 
band Doctor  Lamert,  an  army-surgeon,  whose 
son  James,  even  after  he  had  been  sent  to  Sand- 
hurst for  his  education,  continued  still  to  visit 
Chatham  from  time  to  time.  Pie  had  a turn  for 
private  theatricals  ; and  as  his  father’s  quarters 
were  in  the  ordnance-hospital  there,  a great 
rambling  jrlace  otherwise  at  that  time  almost  un- 
inhabited, he  had  plenty  of  room  in  which  to 
get  up  his  entertainments.  The  staff-doctor 
himself  played  his  part,  and  his  portrait  will  be 
found  in  l^ickwick. 

By  Lamert,  I have  often  heard  him  say,  he 
was  first  taken  to  the  theatre  at  the  very  ten- 
derest  age.  He  could  hanlly,  however,  have  , 
been  younger  than  Charles  Lamb,  whose  first 
experience  was  of  having  seen  Artaxerxes  when 


EARLIEST  YEARS.  5 

six  years  old  ; and  certainly  not  younger  than 
Walter  Scott,  who  was  only  four  when  he  saw 
As  You  Like  It  on  the  Bath  stage,  and  re- 
membered having  screamed  out,  Aifi’t  they 
brothers  t when  scandalised  by  Orlando  and 
Oliver  beginning  to  fight.  But  he  was  at  any 
rate  old  enough  to  recollect  how  his  young  heart 
leapt  with  terror  as  the  wicked  king  Richard, 
struggling  for  life  against  the  virtuous  Richmond, 
backed  up  and  bumped  against  the  box  in  which 
he  was  ; and  subsequent  visits  to  the  same  sanc- 
tuary, as  he  tells  us,  revealed  to  him  many 
wondrous  secrets,  “of  which  not  the  least  terrific 
were,  that  the  witches  in  Macbeth  bore  an  awful 
resemblance  to  the  thanes  and  other  proper  in- 
habitants of  Scotland  ; and  that  the  good  king 
i Duncan  couldn’t  rest  in  his  grave,  but  was  con- 
stantly coming  out  of  it,  and  calling  himself 
somebody  else.” 

During  the  last  two  years  of  Charles’s  resi- 
dence at  Chatham,  he  was  sent  to  a school  kept 
in  Clover-lane  by  the  young  Baptist  minister 
already  named,  Mr.  William  Giles.  I have  the 
picture  of  him  here  very  strongly  in  my  mind  as 
a sensitive,  thoughtful,  feeble-bodied  little  boy, 
with  an  amount  of  experience  as  well  as  fancy 
unusual  in  such  a child,  and  with  a dangerous 
kind  of  wandering  intelligence  that  a teacher 
1 might  turn  to  good  or  evil,  happiness  or  misery, 

[ as  he  directed  it.  Nor  does  the  influence  of 
Mr.  Giles,  such  as  it  was,  seem  to  have  been 
! other  than  favourable.  Charles  had  himself  a 
not  ungrateful  sense  in  after  years  that  this  first 
of  his  masters,  in  his  little  cared  for  childhood, 
had  pronounced  him  to  be  a boy  of  capacity ; 
and  when,  about  half-way  through  the  publica- 
tion of  Pickwick,  his  old  teacher  sent  a silver 
snuff-box  with  admiring  inscription  to  “ the  in- 
imitable Boz,”  it  reminded  him  of  praise  far 
more  precious  obtained  by  him  at  his  first  year’s 
examination  in  the  Clover-lane  academy,  when 
his  recitation  of  a piece  out  of  the  Humourist' s 
Miscellany  about  Doctor  Bolus  had  received, 
unless  his  youthful  vanity  bewildered  him,  a 
double  encore.  A habit,  the  only  bad  one  taught 
him  by  Mr.  Giles,  of  taking  for  a time,  in  very 
moderate  quantities,  the  snuff  called  Irish  black- 
guard, was  the  result  of  this  gift  from  his  old 
master;  but  he  abandoned  it  after  some  few 
years,  and  it  was  never  resumed. 

It  was  in  the  boys’  playing  ground  near  Clover- 
lane  in  which  the  school  stood,  that,  according 
to  one  of  his  youthful  memories,  he  had  been, 
in  the  hay-making  time,  delivered  from  the 
dungeons  of  Seringapatam,  an  immense  pile 

(of  haycock),”  by  his  countrymen  the  victorious 
British  “ (boy  next  door  and  his  two  cousins),” 
The  Life  of  Charles  Dickens,  2. 

and  had  been  recognized  with  ecstacy  by  his 
affianced  one  “ (Miss  Green),”  who  had  come  all 
the  way  from  England  “ (second  house  in  the 
terrace),”  to  ransom  and  marry  him.  It  was  in 
this  playing-field,  too,  as  he  has  himself  re- 
corded, he  first  heard  in  confidence  from  one 
whose  father  was  greatly  connected,  “ being 
under  government,”  of  the  existence  of  a terrible 
banditti  called  the  radicals , whose  principles  were 
that  the  prince-regent  wore  stays ; that  nobody 
had  a right  to  any  salary ; and  that  the  army 
and  navy  ought  to  be  put  down ; horrors  at 
which  he  trembled  in  his  bed,  after  supplicating 
that  the  radicals  might  be  speedily  taken  and 
hanged.  Nor  was  it  the  least  of  the  disappoint- 
ments in  his  visit  of  afterlife  to  the  scenes  of  his 
boyhood  to  have  found  this  play  field  swallowed 
up  by  a railway  station.  It  was  gone,  with  its 
two  beautiful  trees  of  hawthorn  ; and  where  the 
hedge,  the  turf,  and  all  the  buttercups  and 
daisies  had  been,  there  was  nothing  but  the 
stoniest  of  jolting- roads. 

He  was  not  much  over  nine  years  old  when 
his  father  was  recalled  from  Chatham  to  Somer- 
set-house, and  he  had  to  leave  this  good  master, 
and  the  old  place  endeared  to  him  by  recollec- 
tions that  clung  to  him  afterwards  all  his  life 
long.  It  was  here  he  had  made  the  acquaint- 
ance not  only  of  the  famous  books  that  David 
Copperfield  specially  names,  of  Roderick  Ran- 
dom, Peregrine  Pickle,  Humphrey  Clinker,  Tom 
Jones,  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  Don  Quixote,  Gil 
Bias,  Robinson  Crusoe,  the  Arabian  Nights,  and 
the  Tales  of  the  Genii,  but  also  of  the  Tatler,  "s. 
the  Spectator,  the  Idler,  the  Citizen  of  the  World, 
and  Mrs.  Inchbald’s  Collection  of  Farces.  These 
latter  had  been,  as  well,  in  the  little  libraiy  to 
which  access  was  open  to  him  ; and  of  all  of 
them  his  earliest  remembrance  was  the  having 
read  them  over  and  over  at  Chatham,  not  for 
the  first,  the  second,  or  the  third  time.  They 
were  a host  of  friends  when  he  had  no  single—" 
friend ; and  in  leaving  the  place,  he  has  been 
often  heard  to  say,  he  seemed  to  be  leaving 
them  too,  and  everything  that  had  given  his 
ailing  little  life  its  picturesqueness  or  sunshine. 

It  was  the  birthplace  of  his  fancy;  and  he 
hardly  knew  what  store  he  had  set  by  its  busy 
varieties  of  change  and  scene,  until  he  saw  the 
falling  cloud  that  was  to  hide  its  pictures  from 
him  for  ever.  The  gay  bright  regiments  always 
going  and  coming,  the  continual  paradings  and  ^ 
firings,  the  successions  of  sham-sieges  and  sham- 
defences,  the  plays  got  up  by  his  cousin  in  the 
hospital,  the  navy-pay  yacht  in  which  he  had 
sailed  to  Sheerness  with  his  father,  and  the  ships 
floating  out  in  the  Medway,  with  their  far  visions  | 

410 

of  sea — he  was  to  lose  them  all.  He  was  never 
to  watch  the  boys  at  their  games  any  more,  or 
see  them  sham  over  again  the  sham-sieges  and 
defences.  He  was  to  be  taken  away  to  London 
inside  the  stage-coach  Commodore  ; and  Kent- 
ish woods  and  fields,  Cobham  park  and  hall, 
Rochester  cathedral  and  castle,  and  all  the 
wonderful  romance  together,  including  a red- 
cheeked baby  he  had  been  wildly  in  love  with, 
were  to  vanish  like  a dream.  “ On  the  night 
before  we  came  away,”  he  told  me,  “ my  good 
master  came  flitting  in  among  the  packing-cases 
to  give  me  Goldsmith’s  Bee  as  a keepsake. 
Which  I kept  for  his  sake,  and  its  own,  a long 
time  afterwards.”  A longer  time  afterwards  he 
recollected  the  stage-coach  journey,  and  in  one 
of  his  published  papers  said  that  never  had  he 
forgotten,  through  all  the  intervening  years,  the 
smell  of  the  damp  straw  in  which  he  was  packed 
and  forwarded,  like  game,  carriage-paid.  “ There 
was  no  other  inside  passenger,  and  I consumed 
my  sandwiches  in  solitude  and  dreariness,  and 
it  rained  hard  all  the  way,  and  I thought  life 
sloppier  than  I expected  to  find  it.” 

The  earliest  impressions  received  and  retained 
by  him  in  London,  were  of  his  father’s  money 
involvements  ; and  now  first  he  heard  mentioned 
“ the  deed,”  representing  in  fact  that  crisis  of 
his  father’s  affairs  which  is  ascribed  in  fiction  to 
Mr.  Micawber’s.  He  knew  it  in  later  days  to 
have  been  a composition  with  creditors ; though 
at  this  earlier  date  he  was  conscious  of  having 
confounded  it  with  parchments  of  a much  more 
demoniacal  description.  One  result  from  the 
awful  document  soon  showed  itself  in  enforced 
retrenchment.  The  family  had  to  take  up  its 
abode  in  a house  in  Bayham-street,  Camden- 
town. 

Bayham-street  was  about  the  poorest  part  of 
the  London  suburbs  then,  and  the  house  was  a 
mean  small  tenement,  with  a wretched  little 
back-garden  abutting  on  a squalid  court.  Here 
was  no  place  for  new  acquaintances  to  him  : not 
a boy  was  near  with  whom  he  might  hope  to 
become  in  any  way  familiar.  A washerwoman 
lived  next  door,  and  a Bow-street  officer  livetl 
over  the  way.  Many  many  times  has  he  spoken 
to  me  of  this,  and  how  he  seemed  at  once  to 
fall  into  a solitary  condition  apart  from  all  other 
boys  of  his  own  age,  and  to  sink  into  a ne- 
glected state  at  home  which  had  always  been 
quite  unaccountable  to  him.  “ As  I thought,” 
he  said  on  one  occasion  very  bitterly,  “ in  the 
little  back-garret  in  Bayham-street,  of  all  I had 
lost  in  losing  Chatham,  what  would  I have 
given,  if  I had  had  anything  to  give,  to  have 
been  sent  back  to  any  other  school,  to  have 


N- 


been  taught  something  anywhere  ! ” He  was  at 
another  school  already,  not  knowing  it.  The 
self-education  forced  upon  him  was  teaching, 
all  unconsciously  as  yet,  what  for  the  future 
that  awaited  him,  it  most  behoved  him  to  know. 

That  he  took,  from  the  very  beginning  of  this 
Bayham-street  life,  his  first  impression  of  that 
struggling  poverty  which  is  nowhere  more 
vividly  shown  than  in  the  commoner  streets  of 
the  ordinary  London  suburb,  and  which  en- 
riched his  earliest  writings  with  a freshness  of 
original  humour  and  quite  unstudied  pathos 
that  gave  them  much  of  their  sudden  popularity, 
there  cannot  be  a doubt.  “ I certainly  under- 
stood it,”  he  has  often  said  to  me,  “quite  as 
well  then  as  I do  now.”  But  he  was  not  con- 
scious yet  that  he  did  so  understand  it,  or  of 
the  influence  it  was  exerting  on  his  life  even 
then.  It  seems  almost  too  much  to  assert  of  a 
child,  say  at  nine  or  ten  years  old,  that  his 
observation  of  everything  was  as  close  and 
good,  or  that  he  had  as  much  intuitive  imder- 
standing  of  the  character  and  weaknesses  of  the 
grown-up  people  around  him,  as  when  the  same 
keen  and  wonderful  faculty  had  made  him  fa- 
mous among  men.  But  my  experience  of  him  led 
me  to  put  implicit  faith  in  the  assertion  he  un- 
varyingly himself  made,  that  he  had  never  seen 
any  cause  to  correct  or  change  what  in  his  boy- 
hood was  his  own  secret  impression  of  anybod}', 
whom  he  had,  as  a grown  man,  the  opportunity 
of  testing  in  later  years. 

How  it  came,  that,  being  what  he  was,  he 
should  now  have  fallen  into  the  misery  and 
neglect  of  the  time  about  to  be  described,  was  a 
subject  on  which  thoughts  were  frequently  in- 
terchanged between  us;  and  on  one  occasion 
he  gave  me  a sketch  of  the  character  of  his 
father  which,  as  I can  here  repeat  it  in  the  exact 
words  employed  by  him,  will  be  the  best  preface 
I can  make  to  what  I feel  that  I have  no  alter- 
native but  to  tell.  “ I know  ray  fiither  to  be  as 
kindhearted  and  generous  a man  as  ever  lived 
in  the  world.  Everything  that  I can  remember 
of  his  conduct  to  his  wife,  or  children,  or  friends, 
in  sickness  or  affliction,  is  beyond  all  praise. 

By  me,  as  a sick  child,  he  has  watched  night 
and  day,  unweariedly  and  patiently,  many 
nights  and  days.  He  never  undertook  any 
business,  charge  or  trust,  that  he  did  not  zea- 
lously, conscientiously,  irunctually,  honourably 
discharge.  His  industry  has  always  been  untir- 
ing. He  was  proud  of  me,  in  his.  way,  and  had 
a great  admiration  of  the  comic  singing.  But, 
in  the  ease  of  his  temper,  and  the  straitness  of  / 
his  means,  he  appearerl  to  have  utterly  lost  at 
this  time  the  idea  of  educating  me  at  all,  and  to 


EARLIEST  YEARS. 


have  utterly  put  from  him  the  notion  that  I had 
any  claim  upon  him,  in  that  regard,  whatever. 
So  I degenerated  into  cleaning  his  boots  of  a 
morning,  and  my  own ; and  making  myself 
useful  in  the  work  of  the  little  house;  and 
looking  after  my  younger  brothers  and  sisters 
(we  were  now  six  in  all) ; and  going  on  such 
poor  errands  as  arose  out  of  our  poor  way  of 
living.” 

The  cousin  by  marriage  of  whom  I have 
spoken,  James  Lamert,  who  had  lately  com- 
pleted his  education  at  Sandhurst,  and  was 
waiting  in  hopes  of  a commission,  lived  now 
with  the  family  in  Bayham-street,  and  had  not 
lost  his  taste  for  the  stage,  or  his  ingenuities  in 
connection  with  it.  Taking  pity  on  the  solitary 
lad,  he  made  and  painted  a little  theatre  for 
him.  It  was  the  only  fanciful  reality  of  his  pre- 
sent life ; but  it  could  not  supply  what  he  missed 
most  sorely,  the  companionship  of  boys  of  his  own 
age,  with  whom  he  might  share  in  the  advantages 
of  school,  and  contend  for  its  prizes.  His  sister 
Fanny  was  at  about  this  time  elected  as  a pupil 
to  the  royal  academy  of  music ; and  he  has  told 
me  what  a stab  to  his  heart  it  was,  thinking  of 
his  own  disregarded  condition,  to  sea  her  go 
away  to  begin  her  education,  amid  the  tearful 
good  wishes  of  everybody  in  the  house. 

Nevertheless,  as  time  went  on,  his  own  edu- 
cation still  unconsciously  went  on  as  well,  under 
the  sternest  and  most  potent  of  teachers ; and, 
neglected  and  miserable  as  he  was,  he  managed 
gradually  to  transfer  to  London  all  the  dreami- 
\ ness  and  all  the  romance  with  which  he  had 
invested  Chatham.  There  were  then  at  the  top 
of  Bayham-street  some  almshouses,  and  were  still 
when  he  re-visited  it  with  me  nearly  twenty-seven 
years  ago ; and  to  go  to  this  spot,  he  told  me, 
and  look  from  it  over  the  dust-heaps  and  dock- 
leaves  and  fields  (no  longer  there  when  we  saw 
it  together)  at  the  cupola  of  St.  Paul’s  looming 
through  the  smoke,  was  a treat  that  served  him 
for  hours  of  vague  reflection  afterwards.  To  be 
taken  out  for  a walk  into  the  real  town,  espe- 
cially if  it  were  anywhere  about  Covent-garden 
or  the  Strand,  perfectly  entranced  him  with 
pleasure.  But,  most  of  all,  he  had  a profound 
attraction  of  repulsion  to  St.  Giles’s.  If  he  could 
only  induce  whomsoever  took  him  out  to  take 
him  through  Seven-dials,  he  was  supremely 
happy.  “ Good  Heaven  ! ” he  would  exclaim, 
“ what  wild  visions  of  prodigies  of  wickedness, 
want,  and  beggary,  arose  in  my  mind  out  of  that 
place  ! ” He  was  all  this  time,  the  reader  will 
remember,  still  subject  to  continual  attacks  of  ill- 
ness, and  by  reason  of  them,  a very  small  boy 
even  for  his  age. 


That  part  of  his  boyhood  is  now  very  near  of 
which,  when  the  days  of  fame  and  prosperity 
came  to  him,  he  felt  the  weight  upon  his  memory 
as  a painful  burthen  until  he  could  lighten  it  by 
sharing  it  with  a friend ; and  an  accident  I will 
presently  mention  led  him  first  to  reveal  it. 
There  is,  however,  an  interval  of  some  months 
still  to  be  described,  of  which,  from  conversa- 
tions or  letters  that  passed  between  us,  after  or 
because  of  this  confidence,  and  that  already  have 
yielded  fruit  to  these  pages,  I can  supply  some 
vague  and  desultory  notices.  The  use  thus 
made  of  them,  it  is  due  to  myself  to  remark,  was 
contemplated  then  ; for  though,  long  before  his 
death,  I had  ceased  to  believe  it  likely  that  I 
should  survive  to  write  about  him,  he  had  never 
withdrawn  the  wish  at  this  early  time  strongly 
expressed,  or  the  confidences,  not  only  then,  but 
to  the  very  eve  of  his  death  reposed  in  me,  that 
were  to  enable  me  to  fulfil  it.  The  fulfilment 
indeed  he  had  himself  rendered  more  easy  by 
partially  uplifting  the  veil  in  David  Copperfield. 

The  visits  made  from  Bayham-street  were 
chiefly  to  two  connections  of  the  family,  his 
mother’s  elder  brother,  and  his  godfather.  The 
latter,  who  was  a rigger,  and  mast,  oar,  and 
block-maker,  lived  at  Limehouse  in  a substantial 
handsome  sort  of  way,  and  was  kind  to  his  god- 
child. It  was  always  a great  treat  to  him  to  go 
to  Mr.  Huff  ham’s;  and  the  London  night-sights 
as  he  returned  were  a perpetual  joy  and  marvel. 
Here,  too,  the  comic-singing  accomplishment 
was  brought  into  play  so  greatly  to  the  admira- 
tion of  one  of  the  godfather’s  guests,  an  honest 
boat-builder,  that  he  pronounced  the  little  lad  to 
be  a “ progidy.”  The  visits  to  the  uncle,  who 
was  at  this  time  fellow-clerk  with  his  father,  in 
Somerset- house,  were  nearer  home.  Mr.  Thomas 
Barrow,  the  eldest  of  his  mother’s  family,  had 
broken  his  leg  in  a fall ; and,  while  laid  up  with 
this  illness,  his  lodging  was  in  Gerard-street, 
Soho,  in  the  upper  part  of  the  house  of  a worthy 
gentleman  then  recently  deceased,  a bookseller 
nam.ed  Manson,  father  to  the  partner  in  the 
celebrated  firm  of  Christie  and  Manson,  whose 
widow  at  the  time  carried  on  the  business.  At- 
tracted by  the  look  of  the  lad  as  he  went  up- 
stairs, these  good  people  lent  him  books  to  amuse 
him ; among  them  Miss  Porter’s  Scottish  Chiefs, 
Holbein’s  Dance  of  Death,  and  George  Colman’s 
Broad  Grins.  The  latter  seized  his  fancy  very 
much ; and  he  was  so  impressed  by  its  descrip- 
tion of  Covent-garden,  in  the  piece  called  the 
Elder-brolher,  that  he  stole  down  to  the  market 
by  himself  to  compare  it  with  the  book.  He 
remembered,  as  he  said  in  telling  me  this,  snulf- 
I ing  up  the  flavour  of  the  faded  cabbage -leaves  as 


8 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


if  it  were  the  very  breath  of  comic  fiction.  Nor 
was  he  far  wrong,  as  comic  fiction  then,  and  for 
some  time  after,  was.  It  was  reserved  for  him- 
self to  give  sweeter  and  fresher  breath  to  it. 
Many  years  were  to  pass  first,  but  he  was  begin- 
ning already  to  make  the  trial. 

His  uncle  was  shaved  by  a very  odd  old  barber 
out  of  Dean-street,  Soho,  who  was  never  tired  of 
reviewing  the  events  of  the  last  war,  and  espe- 
cially of  detecting  Napoleon’s  mistakes,  and  re- 
arranging his  whole  life  for  him  on  a plan  of  his 
own.  The  boy  wrote  a description  of  this  old 
barber,  but  never  had  courage  to  show  it.  At 
about  the  same  time,  taking  for  his  model  the 
description  of  the  canon’s  housekeeper  in  Gil 
Bias,  he  sketched  a deaf  old  woman  who  waited 
on  them  in  Bayham-street,  and  who  made  deli- 
cate hashes  with  walnut-ketchup.  As  little  did 
he  dare  to  show  this,  either  j though  he  thought 
it,  himself,  extremely  clever. 

In  Bayham-street,  meanwhile,  affairs  were 
going  on  badly;  the  poor  boy’s  visits  to  his 
uncle,  while  the  latter  was  still  kept  a prisoner 
by  his  accident,  were  interrupted  by  another 
attack  of  fever ; and  on  his  recovery  the  myste- 
rious “ deed”  had  again  come  uppermost.  His 
father’s  resources  were  so  low,  and  all  his  expe- 
dients so  thoroughly  exhausted,  that  trial  was  to 
be  made  whether  his  mother  might  not  come 
to  the  rescue.  The  time  was  arrived  for  her  to 
exert  herself,  she  said ; and  she  “ must  do  some- 
thing.” The  godfather  down  at  Limehouse  was 
reported  to  have  an  Indian  connection.  People 
in  the  East  Indies  always  sent  their  children 
home  to  be  educated.  She  would  set  up  a 
school.  They  would  all  grow  rich  by  it.  And 
then,  thought  the  sick  boy,  “ perhaps  even  I 
might  go  to  school  myself.” 

A house  was  soon  found  at  number  four, 
Gower-street  north ; a large  brass  plate  on  the 
door  announced  Mrs.  Dickens’s  Establish- 
ment ; and  the  result  I can  give  in  the  exact 
words  of  the  then  small  actor  in  the  comedy, 
whose  hopes  it  had  raised  so  high.  “ I left,  at  a 
great  many  other  doors,  a great  many  circulars 
calling  attention  to  the  merits  of  the  establish- 
ment. Yet  nobody  ever  came  to  school,  nor  do 
I recollect  that  anybody  ever  proposed  to  come, 
or  that  the  least  preparation  was  made  to  receive 
anybody.  But  I know  that  we  got  on  very 
badly  with  the  butcher  and  baker;  that  very 
often  we  had  not  too  much  for  dinner;  and  that 
at  last  my  father  was  arrested.”  The  interval 
between  the  sponging-housc  and  the  prison  was 
passed  by  the  sorrowful  lad  in  running  errands 
_^and  carrying  messages  for  the  prisoner,  delivered 
with  swollen  eyes  and  through  shining  tears ; and 


the  last  words  said  to  him  by  his  father  before 
he  was  finally  carried  to  the  Marshalsea,  were  to 
the  effect  that  the  sun  was  set  upon  him  for  ever. 
“ I really  believed  at  the  time,”  said  Dickens  to 
me,  “that  they  had  broken  my  heart.”  He  took 
afterwards  ample  revenge  for  this  false  alarm  by 
making  all  the  world  laugh  at  them  in  David 
Copperfield. 

The  readers  of  Mr.  Micawber’s  history  who 
remember  David’s  first  visit  to  the  Marshalsea 
prison,  and  how  upon  seeing  the  turnkey  he  re- 
called the  turnkey  in  the  blanket  in  Roderick 
Random,  will  read  with  curious  interest  what 
follows,  written  as  a personal  experience  of  fact 
two  or  three  years  before  the  fiction  had  even 
entered  into  his  thoughts. 

“ My  father  was  waiting  for  me  in  the  lodge, 
and  we  went  up  to  his  room  (on  the  top  story 
but  one),  and  cried  very  much.  And  he  told 
me,  I remember,  to  take  warning  by  the  Mar- 
shalsea, and  to  observe  that  if  a man  had  twenty 
pounds  a-year,  and  spent  nineteen  pounds  nine- 
teen shillings  and  sixpence,  he  would  be  happy ; 
but  that  a shilling  spent  the  other  way  would 
make  him  wretched.  I see  the  fire  we  sat  be- 
fore, now ; with  two  bricks  inside  the  rusted 
grate,  one  on  each  side,  to  prevent  its  burning 
too  many  coals.  Some  other  debtor  shared  the 
room  with  him,  who  came  in  by-and-by ; and  as 
the  dinner  was  a joint-stock  repast,  I was  sent 
up  to  ‘ Captain  Porter’ in  the  room  overhead, 
with  Mr.  Dickens’s  compliments,  and  I was  his 
son,  and  could  he.  Captain  P,  lend  me  a knife 
and  fork  ? 

“ Captain  Porter  lent  the  knife  and  fork,  with 
his  compliments  in  return.  There  was  a very 
dirty  lady  in  his  little  room  ; and  two  wan  girls, 
his  daughters,  with  shock  heads  of  hair.  I 
thought  I should  not  have  liked  to  borrow  Cap- 
tain Porter’s  comb.  The  Captain  himself  was 
in  the  last  extremity  of  shabbiness  ; and  if  I 
could  draw  at  all,  I would  draw  an  accurate 
portrait  of  the  old,  old,  brown  great-coat  he 
wore,  with  no  other  coat  below  it.  His  whiskers 
were  large.  I saw  his  bed  rolled  up  in  a corner; 
and  what  plates,  and  dishes,  and  pots  he  had,  on 
a shelf ; and  I knew  (God  knows  how)  that  the 
two  girls  with  the  shock  heads  were  Captain 
Porter’s  natural  children,  and  that  the  dirty  lady 
was  not  married  to  Captain  P.  My  timid,  won- 
dering station  on  his  threshold,  was  not  occu- 
pied more  than  a couple  of  minutes,  I dare  say ; 
but  I came  down  again  to  the  room  below  with 
all  this  as  surely  in  my  knowledge,  as  the  knife 
and  fork  were  in  my  hand.” 

How  there  was  something  agreeable  and  gipsy- 
like in  the  dinner  after  all,  and  how  he  took 


EXPERIENCES  IN  BOYHOOD.  9 

back  the  Captain’s  knife  and  fork  early  in  the 
afternoon,  and  how  he  went  home  to  comfort 
his  mother  with  an  account  of  his  visit,  David 
Copperfield  has  also  accurately  told.  Then,  at 
home,  came  many  miserable  daily  struggles  that 
seemed  to  last  an  immense  time,  yet  did  not 
perhaps  cover  many  weeks.  Almost  everything 
by  degrees  was  sold  or  pawned,  little  Charles 
being  the  principal  agent  in  those  sorrowful 
'^transactions.  Such  of  the  books  as  had  been 
brought  from  Chatham,  Peregrine  Pickle,  Rode- 
rick Random,  Tom  Jones,  Humphrey  Clinker, 
and  all  the  rest,  went  first.  They  were  carried 
off  from  the  little  chiffonier,  which  his  father 
called  the  library,  to  a bookseller  in  the  Hamp- 
stead-road,  the  same  that  David  Copperfield 
describes  as  in  the  City-road ; and  the  account 
of  the  sales,  as  they  actually  occurred  and  were 
told  to  me  long  before  David  was  bom,  was  re- 
produced word  for  word  in  his  imaginary  narra- 
tive. “ The  keeper  of  this  bookstall,  who  lived 
in  a little  house  behind  it,  used  to  get  tipsy 
every  night,  and  to  be  violently  scolded  by  his 
wife  every  morning.  More  than  once,  when  I 
went  there  early,  I had  audience  of  him  in  a 
turn-up  bedstead,  with  a cut  in  his  forehead  or  a 
black  eye,  bearing  witness  to  his  excesses  over 
night  (I  am  afraid  he  was  quarrelsome  in  his 
drink) ; and  he,  with  a shaking  hand,  endea- 
vouring to  find  the  needful  shillings  in  one  or 
other  of  the  pockets  of  his  clothes,  which  lay 
upon  the  floor,  while  his  wife,  with  a baby  in 
her  arms  and  her  shoes  down  at  heel,  never  left 
off  rating  him.  Sometimes  he  had  lost  his 
money,  and  then  he  would  ask  me  to  call  again ; 
but  his  wife  had  always  got  some  (had  taken  his, 
I dare  say,  while  he  was  drunk),  and  secretly 
completed  the  bargain  on  the  stairs,  as  we  went 
down  together.” 

The  same  pawnbroker’s  shop,  too,  which  was 
so  well  known  to  David,  became  not  less  fami- 
liar to  Charles ; and  a good  deal  of  notice  was 
here  taken  of  him  by  the  pawnbroker,  or  by  his 
principal  clerk. who  officiated  behind  the  counter, 
and  who,  while  making  out  the  duplicate,  liked 
of  all  things  to  hear  the  lad  conjugate  a Latin 
verb,  and  translate  or  decline  his  musa  and 
dominus.  Every  thing  to  this  accompaniment 
went  gradually ; until  at  last,  even  of  the  furni- 
ture of  Gower-street  number  four,  there  was 
nothing  left  except  a few  chairs,  a kitchen  table, 
and  some  beds.  Then  they  encamped,  as  it 
were,  in  the  two  parlours  of  the  emptied  house, 
and  lived  there  night  and  day. 

All  which  is  but  the  prelude  to  what  remains 
to  be  described. 

II. 

HARD  EXPERIENCES  IN  BOYHOOD. 

1822 — 1824. 

incidents  to  be  told  now  would 
probably  never  have  been  known  to 
me,  or  indeed  any  of  the  occurrences 
of  his  childhood  and  youth,  but  foi 
the  accident  of  a question  which  1 
1^^  put  to  him  one  day  in  the  March  or 

April  of  1847. 

^ I asked  if  he  remembered  ever  having 

seen  in  his  boyhood  our  friend  the  elder  Mr. 
Dilke,  his  father’s  acquaintance  and  contem- 
porary, who  had  been  a clerk  in  the  same^ 
office  in  Somerset-house  to  which  Mr.  Johri 
Dickens  belonged.  Yes,  he  said,  he  recollected 
seeing  him  at  a house  in  Gerrard-street,  where 
his  uncle  Barrow  lodged  during  an  illness,  and 
Mr.  Dilke  had  visited  him.  Never  at  any  other 
time.  Upon  which  I told  him  that  some  one 
else  had  been  intended  in  the  mention  made  to 
me,  for  that  the  reference  implied  not  merely 
his  being  met  accidentally,  but  his  having  had 
some  juvenile  employment  in  a warehouse  near 
the  Strand ; at  which  place  Mr.  Dilke,  being 
with  the  elder  Dickens  one  day,  had  noticed 
him,  and  received,  in  return  for  the  gift  of  a 
half-crown,  a very  low  bow.  He  was  silent  for 
several  minutes ; I felt  that  I had  unintentionally 
touched  a painful  place  in  his  memory  j and  to 
Mr.  Dilke  I never  spoke  of  the  subject  again. 
It  was  not  however  then,  but  some  weeks  later, 
that  Dickens  made  further  allusion  to  my  thus 
having  struck  unconsciously  upon  a time  of 
which  he  never  could  lose  the  remembrance 
while  he  remembered  anything,  and  the  recol- 
lection of  which,  at  intervals,  haunted  him  and 
made  him  miserable,  even  to  that  hour.. 

Very  shortly  afterwards,  I learnt  in  all  their 
detail  the  incidents  that  had  been  so  painful  to 
him,  and  what  then  was  said  to  me  or  written 
respecting  them  revealed  the  story  of  his  boy- 
hood. The  idea  of  David  Copperjield,  which 
was  to  take  all  the  world  into  his  confidence, 
had  not  at  this  time  occurred  to  him  but  what 
it  had  so  startled  me  to  know,  his  readers  were 
afterwards  told  with  only  such  change  or  addi- 
tion as  for  the  time  might  sufficiently  disguise 
himself  under  cover  of  his  hero.  For,  the  poor 
little  lad,  with  good  ability  and  a most  sensitive 
nature,  turned  at  the  age  of  ten  into  a “ labour- 
ing hind  ” in  the  service  of  “ Murdstone  and 
Grinby,”  and  conscious  already  of  what  made  it 
seem  very  strange  to  him  that  he  could  so  easily 
have  been  thrown  away  at  such  an  age,  was  in- 

THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


deed  himself.  His  was  the  secret  agony  of  soul 
at  finding  himself  “ companion  to  Mick  Walker 
^ and  Mealy  Potatoes,”  and  his  the  tears  that 
mingled  with  the  water  in  which  he  and  they 
rinsed  and  washed  out  bottles.  It  had  all 
been  written,  as  fact,  before  he  thought  of  any 
other  use  for  it ; and  it  was  not  until  several 
months  later  when  the  fancy  of  David  Copper- 
field,  itself  suggested  by  what  he  had  so  written 
of  his  early  troubles,  began  to  take  shape  in  his 
mind,  that  he  abandoned  his  first  intention  of 
writing  his  own  life.  Those  warehouse  experi- 
ences fell  then  so  aptly  into  the  subject  he  had 
chosen,  that  he  could  not  resist  the  temptation 
of  immediately  using  them ; and  the  manuscript 
• recording  them,  which  was  but  the  first  portion 
of  what  he  had  designed  to  write,  was  embodied 
in  the  substance  of  the  eleventh  and  earlier 
chapters  of  his  novel.  What  already  had  been 
sent  to  me,  however,  and  proof-sheets  of  the 
novel  interlined  at  the  time,  enable  me  now  to 
separate  the  fact  from  the  fiction  ; and  to  supjfiy 
to  the  story  of  the  author’s  childhood  those 
passages,  omitted  from  the  book,  which,  apart 
from  their  illustration  of  the  growth  of  his  cha- 
racter, present  to  us  a picture  of  tragical  suffer- 
ing, and  of  tender  as  well  as  humorous  fancy, 
unsurpassed  in  even  the  wonders  of  his  published 
writings. 

The  person  indirectly  responsible  for  the 
scenes  to  be  described  was  the  young  relative 
James  Lamert,  the  cousin  by  his  aunt’s  marriage 
of  whom  I have  made  frequent  mention,  who 
got  up  the  plays  at  Chatham,  and  after  passing 
at  Sandhurst  had  been  living  with  the  family  in 
Bayham-street  in  the  hope  of  obtaining  a com- 
mission in  the  army.  This  did  not  come  until 
long  afterwards,  when,  in  consideration  of  his 
father’s  services,  he  received  it,  and  relinquished 
it  then  in  favour  of  a younger  brother ; but  he 
had  meanwhile,  before  the  family  removed  from 
Camden-town,  ceased  to  live  with  them.  The 
husband  of  a sister  of  his  (of  the  same  name  as 
himself,  being  indeed  his  cousin,  George  Lamert), 
a man  of  some  property,  had  recently  embarked 
in  an  odd  sort  of  commercial  speculation ; and 
had  taken  him  into  his  office,  and  his  house,  to 
assist  in  it.  I give  now  the  fragment  of  the 
autobiography  of  Dickens. 

“ This  speculation  was  a rivalry  of  ‘ Warren’s 
Blacking,  30,  Strand,’ — at  that  time  very  famous. 
One  Jonathan  Warren  (tlie  famous  one  was 
Robert),  living  at  30,  Hungerford-stairs,  or  mar- 
ket, Strand  (for  1 forget  which  it  was  called 
then),  claimed  to  have  been  the  original  inven- 
tor or  proprietor  of  the  blacking  recipe,  and  to 
have  been  deposed  and  ill-used  by  his  renowned 


relation.  At  last  he  put  himself  in  the  way  of 
selling  his  recipe,  and  his  name,  and  his  30, 
Hungerford-stairs,  Strand  (30,  Strand,  very  large, 
and  the  intermediate  direction  very  small),  for 
an  annuity ; and  he  set  forth  by  his  agents  that 
a little  capital  would  make  a great  business  of  it. 
The  man  of  some  property  was  found  in  George 
Lamert,  the  cousin  and  brother-in-law  of  James. 
He  bought  this  right  and  title,  and  went  into 
the  blacking  business  and  the  blacking  premisesf 

“ — In  an  evil  hour  for  me,  as  I often  bitterly 
thought.  Its  chief  manager,  James  Lamert,  the 
relative  who  had  lived  with  us  in  Bayham-street, 
seeing  how  I was  employed  from  day  to  day, 
and  knowing  what  our  domestic  circumstances 
then  were,  proposed  that  I should  go  into  the 
blacking  warehouse,  to  be  as  useful  as  I could, 
at  a salary,  I think,  of  six  shillings  a week.  I 
am  not  clear  whether  it  was  six  or  seven.  I am 
inclined  to  believe,  from  my  uncertainty  on  this 
head,  that  it  was  six  at  first,  and  seven  after- 
wards. At  any  rate  the  offer  was  accepted  very 
willingly  by  my  father  and  mother,  and  on  a 
Monday  morning  I went  down  to  the  blacking 
vrarehouse  to  begin  my  business  life. 

It  is  wonderful  to  me  how  I could  have  been 
so  easily  cast  away  at  such  an  age.  It  is  won- 
derful to  me,  that,  even  after  my  descent  into 
the  poor  little  drudge  I had  been  since  we  came 
to  London,  no  one  had  compassion  enough  on 
me — a child  of  singular  abilities,  quick,  eager, 
delicate,  and  soon  hurt,  bodily  or  mentally— to 
suggest  that  something  might  have  been  spared, 
as  certainly  it  might  have  been,  to  place  me  at 
any  common  school.  Our  friends,  I take  it, 
were  tired  out.  No  one  made  any  sign.  My 
father  and  mother  were  quite  satisfied.  They 
could  hardly  have  been  more  so,  if  I had  been 
twenty  years  of  age,  distinguished  at  a grammar- 
school,  and  going  to  Cambridge. 

“ The  blacking  warehouse  was  the  last  house 
on  the  left-hand  side  of  the  way,  at  old  Hunger- 
ford-stairs. It  was  a crazy,  tumble-down  old 
house,  abutting  of  course  on  the  river,  andv, 
literally  overrun  with  rats.  Its  wainscotted 
rooms  and  its  rotten  floors  and  staircase,  and 
the  old  grey  rats  swarming  down  in  the  cellars, 
and  the  sound  of  their  squeaking  and  scuffling 
coming  up  the  stairs  at  all  times,  and  the  dirt 
and  decay  of  the  place,  rise  up  visibly  before 
me,  as  if  I were  there  again.  The  counting- 
house  was  on  the  first  floor,  looking  over  the 
coal-barges  and  the  river.  There  was  a recess 
in  it,  in  which  I was  to  sit  and  work.  My  work 
was  to  cover  the  pots  of  paste-blacking ; first 
with  a piece  of  oil-paper,  and  then  with  a piece 
of  blue  paper ; to  tie  them  round  with  a string ; 


HARD  EXPERIENCES  IN  BO  YIIOOD. 


and  then  to  clip  the  paper  close  and  neat,  all 
round,  until  it  looked  as  smart  as  a pot  of  oint- 
ment from  an  apothecary’s  shop.  When  a cer- 
tain number  of  grosses  of  pots  had  attained  this 
pitch  of  perfection,  I was  to  paste  on  each  a 
printed  label  ; and  then  go  on  again  with  more 
pots.  Two  or  three  other  boys  were  kept  at 
similar  duty  downstairs  on  similar  wages.  One 
of  them  came  up,  in  a ragged  apron  and  a paper 
caj),  on  the  first  Monday  morning,  to  show  me  the 
trick  of  using  the  string  and  tying  the  knot.  His 
1 name  was  Bob  Fagin  ; and  I took  the  liberty  of 
using  his  name,  long  afterwards,  in  Oliver  Twist. 

“ Our  relative  had  kindly  arranged  to  teach 
me  something  in  the  dinner-hour ; from  twelve 
to  one,  I think  it  was ; every  day.  But  an 
arrangement  so  incompatible  with  counting- 
house  business  soon  died  away,  from  no  fault  of 
his  or  mine ; and  for  the  same  reason,  my  small 
work-table,  and  my  grosses  of  pots,  my  papers, 
string,  scissors,  paste-pot,  and  labels,  by  little 
and  little,  vanished  out  of  the  recess  in  the 
counting-house,  and  kept  company  with  the 
other  small  work-tables,  grosses  of  pots,  papers, 
string,  scissors,  and  paste-pots,  downstairs.  It 
was  not  long,  before  Bob  Fagin  and  I,  and 
another  boy  whose  name  was  Paul  Green,  but 
who  was  currently  believed  to  have  been  chris- 
tened Poll  (a  belief  which  I transferred,  long 
afterwards  again,  to  Mr.  Sweedlepipe,  in  Martin 
Chuzzlewit),  worked  generally,  side  by  side.  Bob 
Fagin  was  an  orphan,  and  lived  with  his  brother- 
in-law,  a waterman.  Poll  Green’s  father  had  the 
additional  distinction  of  being  a fireman,  and  was 
employed  at  Drury-lane  theatre ; where  another 
relation  of  Poll’s,  I think  his  little  sister,  did 
imps  in  the  pantomimes. 

“ No  words  can  express  the  secret  agony  of 
my  soul  as  I sunk  into  this  companionship; 
compared  these  every  day  associates  with  those 
of  my  happier  childhood ; and  felt  my  early 
hopes  of  growing  up  to  be  a learned  and  dis- 
tinguished man,  crushed  in  my  breast.  The 
deep  remembrance  of  the  sense  I had  of  being 
' utterly  neglected  and  hopeless ; of  the  shame  I 
felt  in  my  position ; of  the  misery  it  was  to  my 
' young  heart  to  believe  that,  day  by  day,  what  I 
had  learned,  and  thought,  and  delighted  in,  and 
raised  my  fancy  and  my  emulation  up  by,  was 
passing  away  from  me,  never  to  be  brought 
. back  any  more ; cannot  be  written.  My  whole 
nature  was  so  penetrated  with  the  grief  and 
humiliation  of  such  considerations,  that  even 
now,  famous  and  caressed  and  happy,  I often 
forget  in  my  dreams  that  I have  a dear  wife  and 
children ; even  that  I am  a man ; and  wander 
' desolately  back  to  that  time  of  my  life. 


1 1 


“ My  mother  and  my  brothers  and  sisters 
(excepting  Fanny  in  the  royal  academy  of  music) 
were  still  encamped,  with  a young  servant-girl 
from  Chatham-workhouse,  in  the  two  parlours 
in  the  emptied  house  in  Gower-street  north.  It 
was  a long  way  to  go  and  return  within  the 
dinner-hour,  and,  usually,  I either  carried  my 
dinner  with  me,  or  went  and  bought  it  at  some 
neighbouring  shop.  In  the  latter  case,  it  was 
commonly  a saveloy  and  a penny  loaf;  some- 
times, a fourpenny  plate  of  beef  from  a cook’s 
shop ; sometimes,  a plate  of  bread  and  cheese, 
and  a glass  of  beer,  from  a miserable  old  public- 
house  over  the  way : the  Swan,  if  I remember 
right,  or  the  Swan  and  something  else  that  I 
have  forgotten.  Once,  I remember  tucking  my 
own  bread  (which  I had  brought  from  home  in 
the  morning)  under  my  arm,  wrapped  up  in  a 
piece  of  paper  like  a book,  and  going  into  the 
best  dining-room  in  Johnson’s  alamode  beef- 
house  in  Glare-court,  Drury-lane,  and  magnifi- 
cently ordering  a small  plate  of  alamode  beef  to 
eat  with  it.  What  the  waiter  thought  of  such  a 
strange  little  apparition,  coming  in  all  alone,  I 
don’t  know ; but  I can  see  him  now,  staring  at 
me  as  I ate  my  dinner,  and  bringing  up  the 
other  waiter  to  look.  I gave  him  a halfpenny, 
and  I wish,  now,  that  he  hadn’t  taken  it.” 

I lose  here  for  a little  while  the  fragment  of 
direct  narrative,  but  I perfectly  recollect  that  he 
used  to  describe  Saturday  night  as  his  great  treat. 
It  was  a grand  thing  to  walk  home  with  six  shil- 
lings in  his  pocket,  and  to  look  in  at  the  shop 
windows,  and  think  what  it  would  buy.  Hunt’s 
roasted  corn,  as  a British  and  patriotic  substitute 
for  coffee,  was  in  great  vogue  just  then  ; and  the 
little  fellow  used  to  buy  it,  and  roast  it  on  the 
Sunday.  There  was  a cheap  periodical  of  selected 
pieces  called  the  Portfolio,  which  he  had  also  a 
great  fancy  for  taking  home  with  him.  The  new 
proposed  “ deed,”  meanwhile,  had  failed  to  pro- 
pitiate his  father’s  creditors  ; all  hope  of  arrange- 
ment passed  away;  and  the  end  was  that  his 
mother  and  her  encampment  in  Gower-street 
north  broke  up  and  went  to  live  in  the  Marshalsea. 

I am  able  at  this  point  to  resume  his  own  account. 

“ The  key  of  the  house  was  sent  back  to  the 
landlord,  who  was  very  glad  to  get  it ; and  I 
(small  Cain  that  I was,  except  that  I had  never 
done  harm  to  any  one)  was  handed  over  as  a 
lodger  to  a reduced  old  lady,  long  known  to 
our  family,  in  Little-college-street,  Camden-town, 
who  took  children  in  to  board,  and  had  once 
done  so  at  Brighton ; and  who,  with  a few 
alterations  and  embellishments,  unconsciously 
began  to  sit  for  Mrs.  Pipchin  in  Dombey  when 
she  took  in  me. 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


I 2 


“ She  had  a little  brother  and  sister  under  her 
care  then ; somebody’s  natural  children,  who 
were  very  irregularly  paid  for;  and  a widow’s 
little  son.  The  two  boys  and  I slept  in  the 
same  room.  My  own  exclusive  breakfast,  of  a 
penny  cottage  loaf  and  a pennyworth  of  milk,  I 
provided  for  myself.  I kept  another  small  loaf, 
and  a quarter  of  a pound  of  cheese,  on  a par- 
ticular shelf  of  a particular  cupboard ; to  make 
my  supper  on  when  I came  back  at  night.  They 
made  a hole  in  the  six  or  seven  shillings,  I know 
well ; and  I was  out  at  the  blacking-warehouse 
all  day,  and  had  to  support  myself  upon  that 
money  all  the  week.  I suppose  my  lodging  was 
paid  for,  by  my  father.  1 certainly  did  not  pay 
it  myself;  and  I certainly  had  no  other  assistance 
whatever  (the  making  of  my  clothes,  I think,  ex- 
cepted), from  Monday  morning  until  Saturday 
night.  ) No  advice,  no  counsel,  no  encourage- 
ment, no  consolation,  no  support,  from  any  one 
that  I can  call  to  mind,  so  help  me  God. 

“ Sundays,  Fanny  and  I passed  in  the  prison. 
I was  at  the  academy  in  Tenterden- street,  Hano- 
ver-square,  at  nine  o’clock  in  the  morning,  to 
fetch  her ; and  we  walked  back  there  together, 
at  night. 

“ I was  so  young  and  childish,  and  so  little 
qualified — how  could  I be  otherwise? — to  un- 
dertake the  whole  charge  of  my  own  existence, 
that,  in  going  to  Hungerford-stairs  of  a morning, 

I could  not  resist  the  stale  pastry  put  out  at 
half-price  on  trays  at  the  confectioners’  doors  in 
Tottenham-court-road ; and  I often  spent  in 
that,  the  money  I should  have  kept  for  my 
dinner.  Then  I went  without  my  dinner,  or 
bought  a roll,  or  a slice  of  pudding.  There  were 
two  pudding  shops  between  which  I was  divided, 
according  to  my  finances.  One  was  in  a court 
close  to  St.  Martin’s-church  (at  the  back  of  the 
church)  which  is  now  removed  altogether.  The 
pudding  at  that  shop  was  made  with  currants, 
and  was  rather  a special  pudding,  but  was  dear ; 
two  penn’orth  not  being  larger  than  a penn’orth 
of  more  ordinary  pudding.  A good  shop  for  the 
latter  was  in  the  Strand,  somewhere  near  where 
the  Lowther-arcade  is  now.  It  was  a stout, 
hale  pudding,  heavy  and  flabby;  with  great 
raisins  in  it,  stuck  in  whole,  at  great  distances 
apart.  It  came  up  hot,  at  about  noon  every  day  ; 
and  many  and  many  a day  did  I dine  off  it. 

“ We  had  half-an-hour,  I think,  for  tea.  When 
I had  money  enough,  I used  to  go  to  a coffee- 
shop,  and  have  half-a  pint  of  coffee,  and  a slice  of 
bread  and  butter.  When  I had  no  money,  I took 
a turn  in  Covent-garden  market,  and  stared  at  the 
pine-apples.  The  coffee-shops  to  which  I most  re- 
sorted were,  one  in  Maiden-lane ; one  in  a court 


(non-existent  now)  close  to  Hungerford-market ; 
and  one  in  St.  Martin’s-lane,  of  which  I only 
recollect  that  it  stood  near  the  church,  and  that 
in  the  door  there  was  an  oval  glass-plate,  with 
COFFEE-ROOM  painted  on  it,  addressed  towards 
the  street.  If  I ever  find  myself  in  a very| 
different  kind  of  coffee-room  now,  but  where 
there  is  such  an  inscription  on  glass,  and  read  it 
backward  on  the  wrong  side  moor-eeffoc  (as  I 
often  used  to  do  then,  in  a dismal  reverie),  a 
shock  goes  through  my  blood. 

“ I know  I do  not  exaggerate,  unconsciously 
and  unintentionally,  the  scantiness  of  my  re- 
sources and  the  difficulties  of  my  life.  I know 
that  if  a shilling  or  so  were  given  me  by  any  one, 
I spent  it  in  a dinner  or  a tea.  I know  that  I 
worked,  from  morning  to  night,  with  common 
men  and  boys,  a shabby  child.  I know  that  I 
tried,  but  ineffectually,  not  to  anticipate  my 
money,  and  to  make  it  last  the  week  through; 
by  putting  it  away  in  a drawer  I had  in  the 
counting-house,  wrapped  into  six  little  parcels, 
each  parcel  containing  the  same  amount,  and 
labelled  with  a different  day.  I know  that  I 
^have  lounged  about  the  streets,  insufficiently  and 
unsatisfactorily  fed.  I know  that,  but  for  the 
mercy  of  God,  I might  easily  have  been,  for  any 
care  that  was  taken  of  me,  a little  robber  or  a 
little  vagabond. 

“ But  I held  some  station  at  the  blacking 
warehouse  too.  Besides  that  my  relative  at  the 
counting-house  did  what  a man  so  occupied,  and 
dealing  with  a thing  so  anomalous,  could,  to 
treat  me  as  one  upon  a different  footing  from 
the  rest,  I never  said,  to  man  or  boy,  how  it  was 
that  I came  to  be  there,  or  gave  the  least  in- 
dication of  being  sorry  that  I was  there.  That 
I suffered  in  secret,  and  that  I suffered  ex- 
quisitely, no  one  ever  knew  but  I.  How  much  I 
suffered,  it  is,  as  I have  said  already,  utterly 
beyond  my  power  to  tell.  No  man’s  imagination 
can  overstep  the  reality.  But  I kept  my  own 
counsel,  and  I did  my  work.  I knew  from  the 
first,  that  if  I could  not  do  my  work  as  well  as 
any  of  the  rest,  I could  not  hold  myself  above 
slight  and  contenn)t.  I soon  became  at  least 
as  expeditious  and  as  skilful  with  my  hands,  as 
either  of  the  other  boys.  Though  perfectly 
familiar  with  them,  my  conduct  and  manners 
were  different  enough  from  theirs  to  place  a 
space  between  us.  They,  and  the  men,  always 
spoke  of  me  as  ‘ the  young  gentleman.’  A cer- 
tain man  (a  soldier  once)  named  'rhomas,  who 
was  the  foreman,  and  another  mart  Harry,  who 
was  the  carman,  and  wore  a red  jacket,  used  to 
call  me  ‘ Charles  ’ sometimes,  in  si)eaking  to  me ; 
but  I think  it  was  mostly  when  we  were  very 


H^IRD  EXPERIENCES  IN  BOYHOOD. 


13 


conficlenlial,  and  when  I had  made  some  efforts 
to  entertain  theni  over  our  work  with  the  results 
of  some  of  the  old  readings,  which  were  fast 
perishing  out  of  my  mind.  Poll  Green  uprose 
once,  and  rebelled  against  the  ‘ young-gentle- 
man ’ usage ; but  Bob  Fagin  settled  him  speedily. 

“ My  rescue  from  this  kind  of  existence  I con- 
sidered quite  hopeless,  and  abandoned  as  such, 
altogether;  though  I am  solemnly  convinced 
that  I never,  for  one  hour,  was  reconciled  to  it, 
or  was  otherwise  than  miserably  unhappy.  I 
felt  keenly,  however,  the  being  so  cut  off  from 
niy  parents,  my  brothers,  and  sisters , and,  when 
my  day’s  work  was  done,  going  home  to  such  a 
miserable  blank ; and  that,  I thought,  might  be 
corrected.  One  Sunday  night  I remonstrated 
with  my  father  on  this  head,  so  pathetically  and 
with  so  many  tears,  that  his  kind  nature  gave 
way.  He  began  to  think  that  it  was  not  quite 
right.  I do  believe  he  had  never  thought  so 
before,  or  thought  about  it.  It  was  the  first  re- 
monstrance I had  ever  made  about  my  lot,  and 
perhaps  it  opened  up  a little  more  than  I in- 
tended. A back-attic  was  found  for  me  at  the 
house  of  an  insolvent-court  agent,  who  lived  in 
Lant-street  in  the  borough,  where  Bob  Sawyer 
lodged  many  years  afterwards.  A bed  and 
bedding  were  sent  over  for  me,  and  made  up  on 
the  floor.  The  little  window  had  a pleasant 
prospect  of  a timber-yard;  and  when  I took 
possession  of  my  new  abode,  I thought  it  was  a 

Paradise.”  . • . , 

There  is  here  another  blank,  which  it  is  how- 
ever not  difficult  to  supply  from  letters  and  re- 
collections of  my  own.  What  was  to  him  of 
course  the  great  pleasure  of  his  paradise  of  a 
lodging,  was  its  bringing  hinr  again,  though  after 
a fashion  sorry  enough,  within  the  circle  of 
home.  From  this  time  he  used  to  breakfast  at 
home,”  in  other  words  in  the  Marshalsea ; going 
to  it  as  early  as  the  gates  were  open,  and  for  the 
most  part  much  earlier.  They  had  no  want  of 
bodily  comforts  there.  His  father’s  income,  still 
going  on,  was  amply  sufficient  for  that;  and  in 
every  respect  indeed  but  elbow-room,  I have 
heard  him  say,  the  family  lived  more  comfort- 
ably in  prison  than  they  had  done  for  a long 
time  out  of  it.  They  were  waited  on  still  by 
th£  maicl-of-all-work  from  Bayham  - street,  the 
\ '6^a.n  girl  of  the  Chatham  workhouse,  from 
jfmose  sharp  little  worldly  and  also  kindly  ways 
he  took  his  first  impression  of  the  Marchioness 
in  the  OH  Curiosity  Shop.  She  too  had  a lodg- 
ing in  the  neighbourhood  that  she  might  be 
early  on  the  scene  of  her  duties ; and  when 
Charles  met  her,  as  he  would  do  occasionally, 
in  his  lounging -place  by  London -bridge,  he 


would  occupy  the  time  before  the  gates  opened 
by  telling  her  quite  astonishing  fictions  about 
the  wharves  and  the  tower.  “ But  I hope  I 
believed  them  myself,”  he  would  say.^  Besides 
breakfast,  he  had  supper  also  in  the  prison  ; and 
got  to  his  lodging  generally  at  nine  o’clock. 
The  gates  closed  always  at  ten. 

I must  not  omit  what  he  told  me  of  the  land- 
lord of  this  little  lodging.  He  was  a fat,  good- 
natured,  kind  old  gentleman.  He  was  lame,  and 
had  a quiet  old  wife ; and  he  had  a very  inno- 
cent grown-up  son,  who  was  lame  too.  They 
were  all  very  kind  to  the  boy.  He  was  taken 
with  one  of  his  old  attacks  of  spasm  one  night, 
and  the  whole  three  of  them  were  about  his  bed 
until  morning.  They  were  all  dead  when  he 
told  me  this,  but  in  another  form  they  live  still 
very  pleasantly  as  the  Garland  family  in  the  Old 
Curiosity  Shop. 

He  had  a similar  illness  one  day  in  the  ware- 
house, which  I can  describe  in  his  own  words. 

“ Bob  Fagin  was  very  good  to  me  011  the  occa- 
sion of  a bad  attack  of  my  old  disorder.  I 
suffered  such  excruciating  pain  that  time,  that 
they  made  a temporary  bed  of  straw  in  my  old 
recess  in  the  counting-house,  and  I rolled  about 
on  the  floor,  and  Bob  filled  empty  blacking- 
bottles  with  hot  water,  and  applied  relays  of 
them  to  my  side,  half  the  day.  I got  better, 
and  quite  easy  towards  evening;  but  Bob  (who 
was  much  bigger  and  older  than  I)  did  not  like 
the  idea  of  my  going  home  alone,  and  took  me 
under  his  protection.  I was  too  proud  to  let 
him  know  about  the  prison ; and  after  making 
several  efforts  to  get  rid  of  him,  to  all  of  which 
Bob  Fagin  in  his  goodness  was  deaf,  shook 
hands  with  him  on  the  steps  of  a house  near 
Southwark-bridge  on  the  Surrey  side,  making 
believe  that  I lived  there.  As  a finishing  piece  of 
reality  in  case  of  his  looking  back,  I knocked  at 
the  door,  I recollect,  and  asked,  when  the  woman 
opened  it,  if  that  was  Mr.  Robert  Fagin’s  house.” 
The  Saturday  nights  continued,  as  before,  to 
be  precious  to  him.  “ My  usual  way  home  was 
over  Blackfriars-bridge,  and  down  that  turning 
in  the  Blackfriars-road  which  has  Rowland  Hill  s 
chapel  on  one  side,  and  the  likeness  of  a golden 
dog  licking  a golden  pot  over  a shop  door  on 
the  other.  There  are  a good  many  little  low- 
browed  old  shops  in  that  street,  of  a retched 
kind  ; and  some  are  unchanged  now.  I looked 
into  one  a few  weeks  ago,  where  I used  to  buy 
boot-laces  on  Saturday  nights,  and  saw  the  corner 
where  I once  sat  down  on  a stool  to  have  a pair 
of  ready-made  half-boots  fitted  on.  I have  been 
seduced  more  than  once,  in  that  street  on  a 
Saturday  night,  by  a show-van  at  a corner ; and 


14  the  life  of  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


have  gone  in,  with  a very  motley  assemblage,  to 
see  the  Fat-pig,  the  Wilcl-indian,  and  the  Little- 
lady.  There  were  two  or  three  hat-manufac- 
tories there,  then  (I  think  they  are  there  still) ; 
and  among  the  things  which,  encountered  any- 
where, or  under  any  circumstances,  will  instantly 
recall  that  time,  is  the  smell  of  hat-making. 

His  father’s  attempts  to  avoid  going  through 
the  court  having  failed,  all  needful  ceremonies 
had  to  be  undertaken  to  obtain  the  benefit  of 
the  insolvent  debtors’  act ; and  in  one  of  these 
little  Charles  had  his  part  to  play.  One  con- 
dition of  the  statute  was  that  the  wearing  apparel 
and  personal  matters  retained  were  not  to  ex- 
ceed twenty  pounds  sterling  in  value.  “ It 
was  necessary,  as  a matter  of  form,  that  the 
clothes  I wore  should  be  seen  by  the  official 
appraiser.  I had  a half-holiday  to  enable  me 
to  call  upon  him,  at  his  own  time,  at  a house 
somewhere  beyond  the  Obelisk.  I recollect  his 
coming  out  to  look  at  me  with  his  mouth  full, 
and  a strong  smell  of  beer  upon  him,  and  saying 
good-naturedly  that  ‘ that  would  do,’  and  ‘ it  was 
all  right;’  Certainly  the  hardest  creditor  would 
not  have  been  disposed  (even  if  he  had  been 
legally  entitled)  to  avail  himself  of  my  poor 
white  hat,  little  jacket,  or  corduroy  trowsers. 
But  I had  a fat  old  silver  watch  in  my  pocket, 
which  had  been  given  me  by  my  grandmother 
before  the  blacking  days,  and  I had  entertained 
my  doubts  as  I went  along  whether  that  valuable 
possession  might  not  bring  me  over  the  twenty 
pounds.  So  I was  greatly  relieved,  and  made 
him  a bow  of  acknowledgment  as  1 went  out.” 

Still  the  want  felt  most  by  him  was  the  com- 
panionship of  boys  of  his  own  age.  He  had  no 
such  acquaintance.  Sometimes  he  remembered 
to  have  played  on  the  coal-barges  at  dinner-time, 
with  Poll  Green  and  Bob  Fagin  ■,  but  those 
were  rare  occasions.  He  generally  strolled 
alone,  about  the  back  streets  of  the  Adelphi  j or 
explored  the  Adelphi  arches.  One  of  his  fa- 
vourite localities  was  a little  public-house  by  the 
water-side  called  the  Fox-under-the-hill,  ap- 
proached by  an  underground  passage  which  we 
once  missed  in  looking  for  it  together ; and  he 
had  a vision  which  he  has  mentioned  in  Copper- 
field  of  sitting  eating  something  on  a bench  out- 
side, one  fine  evening,  and  looking  at  some 
coal-heavers  dancing  before  the  house.  “ I 
wonder  what  they  thought  of  me,”  says  David. 
He  had  himself  already  said  the  same  in  his 
fragment  of  autobiography. 

Another  characteristic  little  incident  he  made 
afterwards  one  of  David’s  experiences,  but  I am 
able  to  give  it  here  without  the  disguises  that 
adapt  it  to  the  fiction.  “ I was  such  a little 


fellow,  with  my  poor  white  hat,  little  jacket,  and 
corduroy  trowsers,  that  frequently,  when  I went 
into  the  bar  of  a strange  public-house  for  a glass 
of  ale  or  porter  to  wash  down  the  saveloy  and 
the  loaf  I had  eaten  in  the  street,  they  didn’t  like 
to  give  it  me.  I remember,  one  evening  (I  had 
been  somewhere  for  my  father,  and  was  going 
back  to  the  borough  over  Westminster-bridge), 
that  I went  into  a public-house  in  Parliament- 
street,  which  is  still  there  though  altered,  at  the 
corner  of  the  short  street  leading  into  Cannon- 
row,  and  said  to  the  landlord  behind  the  bar, 
‘ What  is  your  very  best — the  very  best — ale,  a 
glass  ? ’ For,  the  occasion  was  a festive  one,  for 
some  reason  : I forget  why.  It  may  have  been 
my  birthday,  or  somebody  else’s.  ‘ Twopence,’ 
says  he.  ‘Then,’  says  I,  ‘just  draw  me  a glass 
of  that,  if  you  please,  with  a good  head  to  it.’ 
The  landlord  looked  at  me,  in  return,  over  the 
bar,  from  head  to  foot,  with  a strange  smile  on 
his  face;  and  instead  of  drawing  the  beer, 
looked  round  the  screen  and  said  something  to 
his  wife,  who  came  out  from  behind  it,  with  her 
work  in  her  hand,  and  joined  him  in  surveying 
me.  Here  we  stand,  all  three,  before  me  now, 
in  my  study  in  Devonshire-terrace.  The  land- 
lord in  his  shirt-sleeves,  leaning  against  the  bar 
window-frame ; his  wife  looking  over  the  little 
half-door;  and  I,  in  some  confusion,  looking  up 
at  them  from  outside  the  partition.  They  asked 
me  a good  many  questions,  as  what  my  name 
was,  how  old  I was,  where  I lived,  how  I was 
employed,  &c.  &c.  To  all  of  which,  that  I 
might  commit  nobody,  I invented  appropriate 
answers.  They  served  me  with  the  ale,  though 
I suspect  it  was  not  the  strongest  on  the  pre- 
mises ; and  the  landlord’s  wife,  opening  the  little 
half-door  and  bending  down,  gave  me  a kiss 
that  was  half-admiring  and  half-compassionate, 
but  all  womanly  and  good,  I am  sure.” 

A later,  and  not  less  characteristic,  occurrence 
of  the  true  story  of  this  time  found  also  a place, 
three  or  four  years  after  it  was  written,  in  his 
now  famous  fiction.  It  preceded  but  by  a short 
term  the  discharge,  from  the  Marshalsea,  of  the 
elder  Dickens ; to  whom  a rather  considerable 
legacy  from  a relative  had  accrued  not  long 
before  (“  some  hundreds  ” I understood),  and 
had  been  paid  into  court  during  his  imprison- 
ment. The  scene  to  be  described  arose  on  the 
occasion  of  a petition  drawn  up  by  him  before 
he  left,  praying,  not  for  the  abolition  of  imprison- 
ment for  debt  as  David  Copperfield  relates,  but 
for  the  less  dignified  but  more  accessible  boon 
of  a bounty  to  the  prisoners  to  drink  his  ma- 
jesty’s health  on  his  majesty’s  forthcoming  birth- 
day. 


r 


HARD  EXPERIENCES  IN  BOYHOOD. 


15 


" I mention  the  circumstance  because  it  illus- 
trates, to  me,  my  early  interest  in  observing 
peoi^le.  When  1 went  to  the  Marshalsea  of  a 
night,  I was  always  delighted  to  hear  from  my 
mother  what  she  knew  about  the  histories  of  the 
different  debtors  in  the  prison;  and  when  I 
heard  of  this  approaching  ceremony,  I was  so 
anjxious  to  see  them  all  come  in,  one  after  an- 
other (though  I knew  the  greater  part  of  them 
already,  to  speak  to,  and  they  me),  that  I got 
leave  of  absence  on  purpose,  and  established 
myself  in  a corner,  near  the  petition.  It  was 
stretched  out,  I recollect,  on  a great  ironing- 
board,  under  the  window,  which  in  another  part 
of  the  room  made  a bedstead  at  night.  The 
internal  regulations  of  the  place,  for  cleanliness 
and  order,  and  for  the  government  of  a common 
room  in  the  alehouse;  where  hot  water  and 
s6fne  means  of  cooking,  and  a good  fire,  were 
provided  for  all  who  paid  a very  small  subscrip- 
tion ; were  excellently  administered  by  a go- 
verning committee  of  debtors,  of  which  my 
father  was  chairman  for  the  time  being.  As 
many  of  the  principal  officers  of  this  body 
as  could  be  got  into  the  small  room  without 
filling  it  up,  supported  him,  in  front  of'the  peti- 
tion ; and  my  old  friend  Captain  Porter  (who 
had  washed  himself,  to  do  honour  to  so  solemn 
an-  occasion)  stationed  himself  close  to  it,  to 
read  it  to  all  who  were  unacquainted  with  its 
contents.  The  door  was  then  thrown  open,  and 
they  began  to  come  in,  in  a long  file ; several 
waiting  on  the  landing  outside,  while'  one  en- 
tered, affixed  his  signature,  and  went  out.  To 
everybody  in  succession.  Captain  Porter  said, 
‘ Would  you  like  to  hear  it  read  ? ’ If  he  weakly 
showed  the  least  disposition  to  hear  it,  Captain 
Porter,  in  a loud  sonorous  voice,  gave  him  every 
word  of  it.  I remember  a certain  luscious  roll 
he  gave  to  such  words  as  ‘ Majesty^gracious 
Majesty — your  gracious  Majesty’s  unfortunate 
subjects — your  Majesty’s  well-known  munifi- 
cence ’ — as  if  the  words  were  something  real  in 
his  mouth,  and  delicious  to  taste ; my  poor 
father  meanwhile  listening  with  a little  of  an 
author’s  vanity,  and  contemplating  (not  severely) 
the  spikes  on  the  opposite  wall.  Whatever  was 
comical  in  this  scene,  and  whatever  was  pathetic, 
I'  'sincerely  believe  I perceived  in  my  corner, 
■whether  I demonstrated  or  not,  quite  as  well 
as  I should  perceive  it  now.  I made  out  my 
own  little  character  and  story  for  every  man  who 
put  his  name  to  the  sheet  of  paper.  I might  be 
able  to  do  that  now,  more  truly : not  more  ear- 
nestly, or  with  a closer  interest.  Their  different 
peculiarities  of  dress,  of  face,  of  gait,  of  manner, 
were  written  indelibly  upon  my  memory.  I 


would  rather  have  seen  it  than  the  best  play 
ever  played  ; and  I thought  about  it  afterwards, 
over  rile  pots  of  paste-blacking,  often  and  often. 
When  I looked,  with  my  mind’s  eye,  into  the 
Fleet-prison,  during  Mr.  Pickwick’s  incarcera- 
tion, I wonder  whether  half-a-dozen  men  were 
wanting  from  the  Marshalsea  crowd  that  came 
filing  in  again  to  the  sound  of  Captain  Porter’s 
voice ! ” 

When  the  family  left  the  Marshalsea,  they  all 
went  to  lodge  with  the  lady  in  Little-college- 
street,  a Mrs.  Roylance,  who  has  obtained  un- 
expected immortality  as  Mrs.  Pipchin  ; and  they 
afterwards  occupied  a small  house  in  Somers- 
town.  But,  before  this  time,  Charles  was  pre- 
sent with  some  of  them  in  Tenterden-street  to 
see  his  sister  Fanny  receive  one  of  the  prizes 
given  to  the  pupils  of  the  royal  academy  of 
music.  “ I could  not  bear  to  think  of  myself — 
beyond  the  reach  of  all  such  honourable  emula- 
tion and  success.  The  tears  ran  down  my  face. 

I felt  as  if  my  heart  were  rent.  I prayed,  when 
I went  to  bed  that  night,  to  be  lifted  out  of  the 
humiliation  and  neglect  in  which  I was.  I 
never  had  suffered  so  much  before.  There  was 
no  envy  in  this.”  There  was  little  need  that  he 
should  say  so.  Extreme  enjoyment  in  witness- 
ing the  exercise  of  her  talents,  the  utmost  pride 
in  every  success  obtained  by  them,  he  mani- 
fested always  to  a degree  otherwise  quite  un- 
usual with  him ; and  on  the  day  of  her  funeral, 
which  we  passed  together,  I had  most  affecting 
proof  of  his  tender  and  grateful  memory  of  her 
in  these  childish  days.  A few  more  sentences, 
certainly  not  less  touching  than  any  that  have 
gone  before,  will  bring  the  story  of  them  to  its 
close.  They  stand  here  exactly  as  written  by 
him. 

“ I am  not  sure  that  it  was  before  this  time, 
or  after  it,  .that  the  blacking  warehouse  was 
removed  to  Chandos-street,  Covent-garden.  It 
is  no  matter.  Next  to  the  shop  at  the  corner  of 
Bedford-street  in  Chandos-street,  are  two  rather 
old-fashioned  houses  and  shops  adjoining  one 
another.  They  were  one  then,  or  thrown  into 
one,  for  the  blacking  business ; and  had  been 
a butter  shop.  Opposite  to  them  was,  and  is,  a 
public-house,  where  I got  my  ale,  under  these 
new  circumstances.  The  stones  in  the  street 
may  be  smoothed  by  my  small  feet  going  across 
to  it  at  dinner-time,  and  back  again.  The  esta- 
blishment was  larger  now,  and  we  had  one  or 
two  new  boys.  Bob  Fagin  and  I had  attained 
to  great  dexterity  in  tying  up  the  pots.  I forget 
how  many  we  could  do  in  five  minutes.  We  | 
worked,  for  the  light’s  sake,  near  the  second  j 
window  as  you  come  from  Bedford-street ; and 


1 6 THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

we  were  so  brisk  at  it,  that  the  people  used  to 
stop  and  look  in.  Sometimes  there  would  be 
quite  a little  crowd  there.  I saw  my  father 
coming  in  at  the  door  one  day  when  we  were 
very  busy,  and  I wondered  how  he  could 
bear  it. 

“ Now,  I generally  had  my  dinner  in  the 
warehouse.  Sometimes  I brought  it  from  home, 
so  I was  better  off.  I see  myself  coming  across 
Russell-square  from  Somers-town  one  morning, 
with  some  cold  hotch-potch  in  a small  basin  tied 
up  in  a handkerchief.  I had  the  same  wander- 
ings about  the  streets  as  I used  to  have,  and  was 
just  as  solitary  and  self-dependent  as  before; 
but  I had  not  the  same  difficulty  in  merely 
living.  I never  however  heard  a word  of  being 
taken  away,  or  of  being  otherwise  than  quite 
provided  for. 

“ At  last,  one  day,  my  father,  and  the  relative 
so  often  mentioned,  quarrelled.^  quarrelled  by  ' 
letter,  for  I took  the  letter  from  my  father  to 
him  which  caused  the  explosion,  but  quarrelled 
very  fiercely.  It  was  about  me.  It  may  have 
had  some  backward  reference,  in  part,  for  any- 
thing I know,  to  my  employment  at  the  window. 
All  I am  certain  of  is,  that,  soon  after  I had 
given  him  the  letter,  my  cousin  (he  was  a sort 
of  cousin  by  marriage)  told  me  he  was  very 
much  insulted  about  me ; and  that  it  was  im- 
possible to  keep  me,  after  that.  I cried  very 
much,  partly  because  it  was  so  sudden,  and 
partly  because  in  his  anger  he  was  violent  about 
my  father,  though  gentle  to  me.  Thomas, 
the  old  soldier,  comforted  me,  and  said  he 
was  sure  it  was  for  the  best.  With  a relief 
so  strange  that  it  was  like  oppression,  I went 
home. 

“ My  mother  set  herself  to  accommodate  the 
quarrel,  and  did  so  next  day.  She  brought 
home  a request  for  me  to  return  next  morning, 
and  a high  character  of  me,  which  I am  very 
sure  I deserved.  My  father  said  I should  go 
back  no  more,  and  should  go  to  school.  I do 
not  write  resentfully  or  angrily  : for  I knowhow 
all  these  things  have  worked  together  to  make 
me  what  I am : but  I never  afterwards  for- 
got, I never  shall  forget,  I never  can  forget, 
that  my  mother  was  warm  for  my  being  sent 
back. 

“ From  that  hour  until  this  at  which  I write, 
no  word  of  that  part  of  my  childhood  which  I 
have  now  gladly  brought  to  a close,  has  passed 
my  lips  to  any  human  being.  I have  no  idea 
how  long  it  lasted  ; whether  for  a year,  or  much 
more,  or  less.  From  that  hour,  until  this,  my 
father  and  my  mother  have  been  stricken  dumb 
upon  iL  I have  never  heard  the  least  allusion 

to  it,  however  far  off  and  remote,  from  either  of 
them.  I have  never,  until  I now  impart  it  to 
this  paper,  in  any  burst  of  confidence  with  any 
one,  my  own  wife  not  excepted,  raised  the  cur- 
tain I then  dropped,  thank  God. 

“ Until  old  Hungerford-market  was  pulled 
down,  until  old  Hungerford-stairs  were  destroyed, 
and  the  very  nature  of  the  ground  changed,  I 
never  had  the  courage  to  go  back  to  the  place 
where  my  servitude  began.  I never  saw  it.  I 
could  not  endure  to  go  near  it.  For  many 
years,  when  I came  near  to  Robert  Warren’s  in 
the  Strand,  I crossed  over  to  the  opposite  side 
of  the  way,  to  avoid  a certain  smell  of  the 
cement  they  put  upon  the  blacking-corks,  which 
reminded  me  of  what  I was  once.  It  was  a very 
long  time  before  I liked  to  go  up  Chandos- 
street.  My  old  way  home  by  the  borough 
made  me  cry,  after  my  eldest  child  could 
^ speak. 

“ In  my  walks  at  night  I have  walked  there 
often,  since  then,  and  by  degrees  I have  come 
to  write  this.  It  does  not  seem  a tithe  of  what 
I might  have  written,  or  of  what  I meant  to 
write.” 

The  substance  of  some  after-talk  explanatory 
of  points  in  the  narrative,  of  which  a note  was 
made  at  the  time,  may  be  briefly  added.  He 
could  hardly  have  been  more  than  twelve  years 
old  when  he  left  the  place,  and  was  still  unusually 
small  for  his  age;  much  smaller,  though  two 
years  older,  than  his  own  eldest  son  was  at 
the  time  of  these  confidences.  His  mother 
had  been  in  the  blacking  warehouse  many  times ; 
his  father  not  more  than  once  or  twice.  The 
rivalry  of  Robert  Warren  by  Jonathan’s  repre- 
sentatives, the  cousins  George  and  James,  was 
carried  to  wonderful  extremes  in  the  way  of  ad- 
vertisement ; and  they  were  all  very  proud,  he 
told  me,  of  the  cat  scratching  the  boot,  whiclr 
was  their  house’s  device.  The  poets  in  the 
house’s  regular  employ  he  remembered,  too,  and 
made  his  first  study  from  one  of  them  for  the 
poet  of  Mrs.  Jarley’s  wax-work.  The  whole 
enterprise,  however,  had  the  usual  end  of  such 
things.  The  younger  cousin  tired  of  the  con- 
cern ; and  a Mr.  Wood,  the  proprietor  who  took 
James’s  share  and  became  George’s  partner,  sold' 
it  ultimately  to  Robert  Warren.  It  continued 
to  be  his  at  the  lime  Dickens  and  myself  last 
spoke  of  it  together,  and  he  had  made  an  ex- 
cellent bargain  of  it. 

SCHOOL-DA  YS  AND  START  IN  LIFE, 


17 


III. 

SCHOOL-DAYS  AND  START  IN  LIFE. 


1824—1830. 

■N  what  way  those  strange  experi- 
ences of  his  boyhood  affected  him 
afterwards,  the  narrative  of  his  life 
must  show  : but  there  were  influ- 
ences that  made  themselves  felt 
even  on  his  way  to  manhood. 

What  at  once  he  brought  out  of  the 
humiliation  that  had  impressed  him  so 
deeply,  though  scarcely  as  yet  quite  consciously, 
was  a natural  dread  of  the  hardships  that  might 
still  be  in  store  for  him,  sharpened  by  what  he 
liad  gone  through  ; and  this,  though  in  its  effect 
for  the  present  imperfectly  understood,  became 
by  degrees  a passionate  resolve,  even  while  he 
was  yielding  to  circumstances,  fiot  to  be  what  cir- 
cumstances were  conspiring  to  make  him.  All 
that  was  involved  in  what  he  had  suffered  and 
sunk  into,  could  not  have  been  known  to  him 
at  the  time  ; but  it  was  plain  enough  later,  as  we 
see  ; and  in  conversation  with  me  after  the  re- 
velation was  made,  he  used  to  find,  at  extreme 
points  in  his  life,  the  explanation  of  himself  in 
those  early  trials.  He  had  derived  great  good 
from  them,  but  not  without  alloy.  The  fixed 
and  eager  determination,  the  restless  and  resist- 
less energy,  which  opened  to  him  opportunities 
of  escape  from  many  mean  environments,  not  by 
turning  off  from  any  path  of  duty,  but  by  reso- 
lutely rising  to  such  excellence  or  distinction  as 
might  be  attainable  in  it,  brought  with  it  some 
disadvantage  among  many  noble  advantages. 
Of  this  he  was  himself  aware,  but  not  to  the  full 
extent.  What  it  was  that  in  society  made  him 
often  uneasy,  shrinking,  and  over-sensitive,  he 
knew ; but  all  the  danger  he  ran  in  bearing 
down  and  over-mastering  the  feeling,  he  did  not 
know.  A too  great  confidence  in  himself,  a sense 
that  everything  was  possible  to  the  will  that 
would  make  it  so,  laid  occasionally  upon  him 
self-imposed  burdens  greater  than  might  be 
borne  by  any  one  with  safety.  In  that  direction 
there  was  in  him,  at  such  times,  something  even 
hard  and  aggressive;  in  his  determinations  a 
something  that  had  almost  the  tone  of  fierce- 
ness ; something  in  his  nature  that  made  his  re- 
solves insuperable,  however  hasty  the  opinions 
on  which  they  had  been  formed.  So  rare  were 
these  manifestations,  however,  and  so  little  did 
they  prejudice  a character  as  entirely  open  and 
generous  as  it  was  at  all  times  ardent  and  im- 
petuous, that  only  very  infrequently,  towards 


the  close  of  the  middle  term  of  a friendship 
which  lasted  without  the  interruption  of  a day 
for  more  than  three  and  thirty  years,  were  they 
ever  unfavourably  presented  to  me.  But  there 
they  were  ; and  when  I have  seen  strangely  pre- 
sent, at  such  chance  intervals,  a stern  and  even 
cold  isolation  of  self-reliance  side  by  side  with  a 
susceptivity  almost  feminine  and  the  most  eager 
craving  for  sympathy,  it  has  seemed  to  me  as 
though  his  habitual  impulses  for  everything 
kind  and  gentle  had  sunk,  for  the  time,  under  a 
sudden  hard  and  inexorable  sense  of  what  fate 
had  dealt  to  him  in  those  early  years.  On  more 
than  one  occasion  indeed  I had  confirmation  of 
this.  “ I must  entreat  you,”  he  wrote  to  me  in 
June  1862,  “to  pause  for  an  instant,  and  go 
back  to  what  you  know  of  my  childish  days,  and 
to  ask  yourself  whether  it  is  natural  that  some- 
thing of  the  character  formed  in  me  then,  and 
lost  under  happier  circumstances,  should  have 
reappeared  in  the  last  five  years.  The  never  to 
be  forgotten  misery  of  that  old  time,  bred  a cer- 
tain shrinking  sensitiveness  in  a certain  ill-clad 
ill-fed  child,  that  I have  found  come  back  in 
the  never  to  be  forgotten  misery  of  this  later 
time.” 

One  good  there  was,  however,  altogether 
without  drawback,  and  which  claims  simply  to 
be  mentioned  before  my  narrative  is  resumed. 
The  story  of  his  childish  misery  has  itself  suffi- 
ciently shown  that  he  never  throughout  it  lost 
his  precious  gift  of  animal  spirits,  or  his  native 
capacity  for  humorous  enjoyment;  and  there 
were  positive  gains  to  him  from  what  he  under- 
went, which  were  also  rich  and  lasting.  To 
what  in  the  outset  of  his  difficulties  and  trials 
gave  the  decisive  bent  to  his  genius,  I have 
already  made  special  reference  ; and  we  are  to 
observe,  of  what  followed,  that  with  the  very 
poor  and  unprosperous,  out  of  whose  sufferings 
and  stragglings,  and  the  virtues  as  well  as  vices 
born  of  them,  his  not  least  splendid  successes 
were  wrought,  his  childish  experiences  had  made 
him  actually  one.  They  were  not  his  clients 
whose  cause  he  pleaded  with  such  pathos  and 
humour,  and  on  whose  side  he  got  the  laughter 
and  tears  of  all  the  world,  but  in  some  sort  his 
very  self.  Nor  was  it  a small  part  of  this  mani- 
fest advantage  that  he  should  have  obtained  his 
experience  as  a child  and  not  as  a man ; that 
only  the  good  part,  the  flower  and  fruit  of  it, 
was  plucked  by  him  ; and  that  nothing  of  the 
evil  part,  none  of  the  earth  in  which  the  seed 
was  planted,  remained  to  soil  him. 

His  next  move  in  life  can  also  be  given  in 
his  own  language.  “ There  was  a school  in  the 
Hampstead-road  kept  by  Mr.  Jones,  a Welsh- 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


i8 


man,  to  which  my  father  dispatched  me  to  ask 
for  a card  of  terms.  The  boys  were  at  dinner, 
and  Mr.  Jones  was  carving  for  them,  with  a pair 
of  holland  sleeves  on,  when  I acquitted  myself 
of  this  commission.  He  came  out,  and  gave  me 
what  I wanted ; and  hoped  I should  become  a 
pupil.  I did.  At  seven  o’clock  one  morning, 
very  soon  afterwards,  I went  as  day  scholar  to 
Mr.  Jones’s  establishment,  which  was  in  Morn- 
ington-place,  and  had  its  school-room  sliced 
away  by  the  Birmingham-railway,  when  that 
change  came  about.  The  school-room  however 
was  not  threatened  by  directors  or  civil  engi- 
neers then,  and  there  was  a board  over  the  door 
graced  with  the  words  Wellington  House 
Academy.” 

^ At  Wellington-house  academy  he  remained 
nearly  two  years,  being  a little  over  fourteen 
years  of  age  when  he  quitted  it.  In  his  minor 
writings  as  well  as  in  Copperjield  will  be  found 
general  allusions  to  it,  and  there  is  a paper 
among  his  pieces  reprinted  from  Household 
Words  which  purports  specifically  to  describe 
it.  To  the  account  therein  given  of  himself 
when  he  went  to  the  school,  as  advanced  enough, 
so  safely  had  his  memory  retained  its  poor  frag- 
ments of  early  schooling,  to  be  put  into  Virgil, 
as  getting  sundry  prizes,  and  as  attaining  to  the 
eminent  position  of  its  first  boy,  one  of  his  two 
schoolfellows  with  whom  I have  had  communi- 
cation, makes  objection;  but  both  admit  that 
the  general  features  of  the  place  are  reproduced 
with  wonderful  accuracy,  and  more  especially 
in  those  points  for  which  the  school  appears  to 
have  been  much  more  notable  than  for  anything 
connected  with  the  scholarship  of  its  pupils. 

In  the  reprinted  piece  Dickens  describes  it  as 
remarkable  for  white  mice.  He  says  that  red- 
polls, linnets,  and  even  canaries,  were  kept  by 
the  boys  in  desks,  drawers,  hat-boxes,  and  other 
strange  refuges  for  birds  ; but  that  white  mice 
were  the  favourite  stock,  and  that  the  boys 
trained  the  mice  much  better  than  the  master 
trained  the  boys.  He  recalled  in  particular  one 
white  mouse  who  lived  in  the  cover  of  a Latin 
dictionary,  ran  up  ladders,  drew  Roman  cha- 
riots, shouldered  muskets,  turned  wheels,  and 
even  made  a very  creditable  appearance  on  the 
stage  as  the  Dog  of  Montargis,  who  might  have 
achieved  greater  things  but  for  having  had  the 
misfortune  to  mistake  his  way  in  a triumphal 
procession  to  the  Capitol,  when  he  fell  into  a 
deep  inkstand,  and  was  dyed  black  and 
drowned. 

Nevertheless  he  mentions  the  school  as  one 
also  of  some  celebrity  in  its  neighbourhootl, 
though  nobody  could  have  said  why ; and  adds 


that  among  the  boys  the  master  was  supposed 
to  know  nothing,  and  one  of  the  ushers  was 
supposed  to  know  everything.  “ We  are  still 
inclined  to  think  the  first  named  supposition 
perfectly  correct.  We  went  to  look  at  the  place  j 
only  this  last  midsummer,  and  found  that  the 
railway  had  cut  it  up,  root  and  branch.  A great  ' 
trunk  line  had  swallowed  the  playground,  [sliced 
away  the  school-room,  and  pared  off  the  (porner 
of  the  house.  Which,  thus  curtailed  of  its  pro- 
portions, presented  itself  in  a green  stage  of 
stucco,  profile-wise  towards  the  road,  like  a for- 
lorn flat-iron  without  a handle,  standing  on  end.” 

One  who  knew  him  in  those  early  days,  Mr. 
Owen  P.  Thomas,  thus  writes  to  me  (February, 
1871).  “I  had  the  honour  of  being  Mr.  Dickens’s 
schoolfellow  for  about  two  years  (1824 — 1826), 
both  being  day-scholars,  at  Mr.  Jones’s  ‘ Clas- 
sical and  Commercial  Academy,’  as  then  in- 
scribed in  front  of  the  house,  and  which  was 
situated  at  the  corner  of  Granby-street  and  the 
Hampstead-road.  The  house  stands  no\y  in  its 
original  state,  but  the  school  and  large;  play- 
ground behind  disappeared  on  the  formation  of 
the  London  and  North-western  railway,  Kvhich 
at  this  point  runs  in  a slanting  direction  from 
Euston-square  underneath  the  Hampstead-road. 

We  were  all  companions  and  playmates  when 
out  of  school,  as  well  as  fellow-students  therein.” 
(Mr.  Thomas  includes  in  this  remark  the  names 
of  Henry  Danson,  now  a physician  in  ptacrice 
in  London  ; of  Daniel  Tobin,  whom  I remlember 
to  have  been  frequently  assisted  by  his  old  school- 
fellow in  later  years;  and  of  Richard  Bray.)  “You 
will  find  a graphic  sketch  of  the  school  by  Mr. 
Dickens  himself  in  Household  Words  of  nth 
October,  1851.  The  article  is  entitled  Our 
School.  The  names  of  course  are  feigned  ; but, 
allowing  for  slight  colouring,  the  persons  and 
incidents  described  are  all  true  to  life,  and  easily 
recognizable  by  any  one  who  attended  the  school 
at  the  time.  The  Latin  master  was  Mr.i  Man- 
ville,  or  Mandeville,  who  for  many  years  was 
well  known  at  the  library  of  the  British-miiSeum. 
The  academy,  after  the  railroad  overthrew  it, 
was  removetl  to  another  house  in  the  neighbour-  | 
hood,  but  Mr.  Jones  and  two  at  least  bf  his  | 
assistant  masters  have  long  ago  departed  this 
life.” 

One  of  the  latter  was  the  usher  believed  to 
know  everything,  who  was  writing  master,  mathe-  ; 
matical  master,  English  master,  divided  the  little 
boys  with  the  Latin  master,  made  out  the  bills, 
mended  the  pens,  and  always  called  at  parents’ 
houses  to  enquire  after  sick  boys,  becailse  he 
had  gentlemanly  manners.  This  picture,  my 
correspondent  recognized : as  well  as  those  of 


SCHOOL-DAYS  AND  S2ART  IN  LIFE. 


19 


the  fat  little  dancing  master  who  taught  them 
hornpipes,  of  the  Latin  master  who  stuft’ed  his 
ears  with  onions  for  his  deafness,  of  the  gruff 
serving-man  who  nursed  the  boys  in  scarlet  fever, 
and  of  the  principal  himself  who  was  always 
ruling  ciphering  books  with  a bloated  mahogany 
ruler,  smiting  the  palms  of  offenders  with  the 
same  diabolical  instrument,  or  viciously  draw- 
ing a pair  of  pantaloons  tight  with  one  of  his 
large  hands  and  caning  the  wearer  with  the 
other. 

“ My  recollection  of  Dickens  whilst  at  school,” 
Mr.  Thomas  continues,  “is  that  of  a healthy 
looking  boy,  small  but  well-built,  with  a more 
than  usual  flow  of  spirits,  inducing  to  harmless 
fun,  seldom  or  ever  I think  to  mischief,  to  which 


so  many  lads  at  that  age  are  prone.  I cannot 
recall  anything  that  then  indicated  he  would 
hereafter  become  a literary  celebrity ; but  per- 
haps he  was  too  young  then.  He  usually  held 
his  head  more  erect  than  lads  ordinarily  do,  and 
there  was  a general  smartness  about  him.  His 
week-day  dress  of  jacket  and  trousers,  I can 
clearly  remember,  was  what  is  called  pepper-and- 
salt  ; and  instead  of  the  frill  that  most  boys  of 
his  age  wore  then,  he  had  a turn-down  collar,  so 
that  he  looked  less  youthful  in  consequence. 
He  invented  what  we  termed  a ‘ lingo,’  produced 
by  the  addition  of  a few  letters  of  the  same 
sound  to  every  word  ; and  it  was  our  ambition, 
walking  and  talking  thus  along  the  street,  to  be 
considered  foreigners.  As  an  alternate  amuse- 


t A.., A 


{No  date,  but  was  written  i* 


latter  part  of  1825.) 


ment  the  present  witer  well  remembers  extem- 
porising tales  of  some  sort,  and  reciting  them 
offhand,  with  Dickens  and  Danson  or  Tobin 
walking  on  either  side  of  him.  I enclose  you  a 
copy  of  a note  I received  from  him  when  he  was 
between  thirteen  and  fourteen  years  of  age,  per- 
haps one  of  the  earliest  productions  of  his  pen. 
The  Leg  referred  to  was  the  Legend  of  some- 
thing, a pamphlet  romance  I had  lent  him ; the 
Clavis  was  of  course  the  Latin  school  book  so 
named.” 

There  is  some  underlying  whim  or  fun  in  the 
“ Leg  ” allusions  which  Mr.  Thomas  appears  to 
have  overlooked,  and  certainly  fails  to  explain  : 
but  the  note,  which  is  given  in  fac-simile 
above,  may  be  left  to  speak  for  itself ; and 


in  the  signature  the  reader  will  be  amused  to 
see  the  first  faint  beginning  of  a flourish  after- 
wards famous. 

“ After  a lapse  of  years,”  Mr.  Thomas  con- 
tinues, “ I recognized  the  celebrated  writer  as 
the  individual  I had  known  so  well  as  a boy, 
from  having  preserved  this  note ; and  upon  Mr. 
Dickens  visiting  Reading  in  December  1854  to 
give  one  of  his  earliest  readings  for  the  benefit 
of  the  literary  institute,  of  which  he  had  become 
president  on  Mr.  Justice  Talfourd’s  death,  I took 
the  opportunity  of  showing  it  to  him,  when  he 
was  much  diverted  therewith.  On  the  same 
occasion  we  conversed  about  mutual  school- 
fellows, and  among  others  Daniel  Tobin  was 
referred  to,  whom  I remember  to  have  been 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Dickens’s  most  intimate  companion  in  the  school- 
days (1824  to  1826).  His  reply  was  that  Tobin 
either  was  then,  or  had  previously  been,  assisting 
him  in  the  capacity  of  amanuensis  ; but  there  is 
a subsequent  mystery  about  Tobin,  in  connec- 
tion with  his  friend  and  patron,  which  I have 
never  been  able  to  comprehend ; for  I under- 
stood shortly  afterwards  that  there  was  entire 
separation  between  them,  and  it  must  have  been 
an  offence  of  some  gravity  to  have  sundered  an 
acquaintance  formed  in  early  youth,  and  which 
had  endured,  greatly  to  Tobin’s  advantage,  so 
long.  He  resided  in  our  school-days  in  one  of 
the  now  old  and  grimy-looking  stone-fronted 
houses  in  George-street,  Euston-road,  a few 
doors  from  the  Orange-tree  tavern.  It  is  the 
opinion  of  the  other  schoolfellow  with  whom  we 
were  intimate.  Doctor  Danson,  that  upon  leaving 
school  Mr.  Dickens  and  Tobin  entered  the  same 
solicitor’s  office,  and  this  he  thinks  was  either  in 
I or  near  Lincoln’s-inn-fields.” 

The  offence  of  Tobin  went  no  deeper  than 
the  having  at  last  worn  out  even  Dickens’s 
patience  and  kindness.  His  applications  for 
relief  were  so  incessantly  repeated,  that  to  cut 
him  and  them  adrift  altogether  was  the  only 
way  of  escape  from  what  had  become  an  intole- 
rable nuisance.  To  Mr.  Thomas’s  letter  the 
reader  will  thank  me  for  adding  one  not  less 
interesting,  with  which  Dr.  Henry  Danson  has 
favoured  me.  We  have  here,  with  the  same  fun 
and  animal  spirits,  a little  of  the  proneness  to 
mischief  which  his  other  schoolfellow  says  he 
was  free  from ; but  the  mischief  is  all  of  the 
harmless  kind,  and  might  perhaps  have  been 
better  described  as  but  part  of  an  irrepressible 
vivacity. 

“ My  impression  is  that  I was  a schoolfellow 
of  Dickens  for  nearly  two  years  ; he  left  before 
me,  I think  at  about  15  years  of  age.  Mr.  Jones’s 
school,  called  the  Weilington-academy,  was  in 
the  Hampstead-road,  at  the  north-east  corner  of 
Granby-street.  The  school-house  was  afterwards 
removed  for  the  London  and  North-western  rail- 
way. It  was  considered  at  the  time  a very 
superior  sort  of  school,  one  of  the  best  indeed  in 
that  part  of  London  ; but  it  was  most  shamefully 
mismanaged,  and  the  boys  made  but  very  little 
progress.  The  proprietor,  Mr.  Jones,  was  a Welsh- 
man ; a most  ignorant  fellow,  and  a mere  tyrant ; 
whose  chief  employment  was  to  scourge  the 
boys.  Dickens  has  given  a very  lively  account 
! of  this  place  in  his  paper  entitled  Our  School, 
but  it  is  very  mythical  in  many  respects,  and 
more  especially  in  the  compliment  he  pays  in 
it  to  himself.  I do  not  remember  that  Dickens 
distinguished  himself  in  any  way,  or  carried  off 


any  prizes.  My  belief  is  that  he  did  not  learn 
Greek  or  Latin  there,  and  you  will  remember 
there  is  no  allusion  to  the  classics  in  any  of  his 
writings.  He  was  a handsome,  curly-headed 
lad,  full  of  animation  and  animal  spirits,  and 
probably  was  connected  with  every  mischievous 
prank  in  the  school.  I do  not  think  he  came  in 
for  any  of  Mr.  Jones's  scourging  propensity : in 
fact,  together  with  myself,  he  was  only  a day-pupil, 
and  with  these  there  was  a wholesome  fear  of 
tales  being  carried  home  to  the  parents.  His  per- 
sonal appearance  at  that  time  is  vividly  brought 
home  to  me  in  the  portrait  of  him  taken  a few 
years  later  by  Mr.  Lawrence.  He  resided  with 
his  friends,  in  a very  small  house  in  a street 
leading  out  of  Seymour-street,  north  of  Mr. 
Judkin’s  chapel. 

“ Depend  on  it  he  was  quite  a self-made  man, 
and  his  wonderful  knowledge  and  command  of 
the  English  language  must  have  been  acquired 
by  long  and  patient  study  after  leaving  his  last 
school. 

“ I have  no  recollection  of  the  boy  you  name. 
His  chief  associates  were,  I think,  Tobin,  Mr. 
Thomas  Bray,  and  myself.  The  first-named  was 
his  chief  ally,  and  his  acquaintance  with  him 
appears  to  have  continued  many  years  afterwards. 
At  about  that  time  Penny  and  Saturday  maga- 
zines were  published  weekly,  and  were  greedily 
read  by  us.  We  kept  bees,  white  mice,  and 
other  living  things  clandestinely  in  our  desks ; 
and  the  mechanical  arts  were  a good  deal  culti- 
vated, in  the  shape  of  coach-building,  and  mak- 
ing pumps  and  boats,  the  motive  power  of  which 
was  the  white  mice. 

“ I think  at  that  time  Dickens  took  to  writing 
small  tales,  and  we  had  a sort  of  club  for  lending 
and  circulating  them.  Dickens  was  also  very 
strong  in  using  a sort  of  lingo,  which  made  us 
quite  unintelligible  to  bystanders.  We  were 
very  strong,  too,  in  theatricals.  We  mounted 
small  theatres,  and  got  up  very  gorgeous  scenery 
to  illustrate  the  Millei-  and  his  Mai  and  Cha  ry 
and  Fair  Star.  I remember  the  present  Mr. 
Beverley,  the  scene  painter,  assisted  us  in  this. 
Dickens  was  always  a leader  at  these  plays, 
which  were  occasionally  presented  with  mttcli 
solemnity  before  an  audience  ot  boys,  and  in 
the  presence  of  the  ushers.  My  brother,  assisted 
by  Dickens,  got  up  the  Alilkr  and  his  Mat,  in 
a very  gorgeous  form.  Master  Beverley  con- 
structed the  mill  for  us  in  such  a way  that  it 
could  tumble  to  pieces  witli  the  assistance  of 
crackers.  At  one  representation  the  fireworks 
in  the  last  scene,  ending  with  the  destruction  ot 
tlic  mill,  were  so  veiy  real  that  the  police  in- 
terfered, and  knocked  violently  at  the  doors. 


SCHOOL-DAYS  AND  START  IN  LIFE. 


Dickens’s  after  taste  for  theatricals  might  have 
had  its  origin  in  these  small  affairs. 

“ I (juite  remember  Dickens  on  one  occasion 
heading  us  in  Drummond-street  in  pretending 
to  be  poor  boys,  and  asking  the  passers-by  for 
charity — especially  old  ladies  ; one  of  whom 
told  us  she  ‘ had  no  money  for  beggar  boys.’ 
On  these  adventures,  when  the  old  ladies  were 
quite  staggered  by  the  impudence  of  the  demand, 
Dickens  would  explode  with  laughter  and  take 
to  his  heels. 


“ I met  him  one  Sunday  morning  shortly  after 
he  left  the  school,  and  we  very  piously  attended 
the  morning  service  at  Seymour-street  chapel, 
I am  sorry  to  say  Master  Dickens  did  not  attend 
in  the  slightest  degree  to  the  service,  but  incited 
me  to  laughter  by  declaring  his  dinner  was  ready 
and  the  potatoes  would  be  spoiled,  and  in  fact 
behaved  in  such  a manner  that  it  was  lucky  for 
us  we  were  not  ejected  from  the  chapel. 

“ I heard  of  him  some  time  after  from  Tobin, 
whom  I met  carrying  a foaming  pot  of  London 


particular  in  Lincoln’s-inn-fields,  and  I then 
understood  that  Dickens  was  in  the  same  or 
some  neighbouring  office. 

“ Many  years  elapsed  after  this  before  I be- 
came aware,  from  accidentally  reading  Our 
School,  that  the  brilliant  and  now  famous  Dickens 
was  my  old  schoolfellow.  I didn’t  like  to  in- 
trude myself  upon  him;  and  it  was  not  until 
three  or  four  years  ago,  when  he  presided  at  the 
University-college  dinner  at  Willis’s-rooms,  and 
made  a most  briil'ant  and  effective  speech,  that 
Life  of  Charles  Dickens,  3. 


I sent  him  a congratulatory  note  reminding  him 
of  our  former  fellowship.  To  this  he  sent  me  a 
kind  note  in  reply,  and  which  I value  very  much. 
I send  you  copies  of  these.” 

From  Dickens  himself  I never  heard  much 
allusion  to  the  school  thus  described : but  I 
knew,  that,  besides  being  the  subject  dealt  with 
in  Household  Words,  it  had  supplied  some  of 
the  lighter  traits  of  Salem-house  for  Copperficld ; 
and  that  to  the  fact  of  one  of  its  tutors  being 
afterwards  engaged  to  teach  a boy  of  Macready’s, 
4TI 


22 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


our  common  friend,  Dickens  used  to  point  for 
one  of  the  illustrations  of  his  favourite  theory  as 
to  the  smallness  of  the  world,  and  how  things 
and  persons  apparently  the  most  unlikely  to 
meet  were  continually  knocking  up  against  each 
other.  The  employment  as  his  amanuensis  of 
his  schoolfellow  Tobin  dates  as  early  as  his 
Doctors’-commons  days,  but  both  my  correspond- 
ents are  mistaken  in  the  impression  they  appear 
to  have  received  that  Tobin  had  been  previously 
his  fellow-clerk  in  the  same  attorney’s  office.  I 
had  thought  him  more  likely  to  have  been  ac- 
companied there  by  another  of  his  boyish 
acquaintances  who  became  afterwards  a solicitor, 
Mr.  Mitton,  not  recollected  by  either  of  my 
correspondents  in  connection  with  the  school, 
but  whom  I frequently  met  with  him  in  later 
years,  and  for  whom  he  had  the  regard  arising 
out  of  such  early  associations.  In  this  however 
I have  since  discovered  my  own  mistake : the 
truth  being  that  it  was  this  gentleman’s  connec- 
tion, not  with  the  Wellington-academy,  but  with 
a school  kept  by  Mr.  Dawson  in  Hunter-street, 
Brunswick-square,  where  the  brothers  of  Dickens 
were  subsequently  placed,  which  led  to  their 
early  knowledge  of  each  other.  I fancy  that 
they  were  together  also,  for  a short  time,  at  Mr. 
Molloy’s  in  New-square,  Lincoln’s-inn ; but, 
whether  or  not  this  was  so,  Dickens  certainly 
had  not  quitted  school  many  months  before  his 
father  had  made  sufficient  interest  with  an  attor- 
ney of  Gray’s-inn,  Mr.  Edward  Blackmore,  to 
obtain  him  regular  employment  in  his  office.  In 
this  capacity  of  clerk,  our  only  trustworthy 
glimpse  of  him  we  owe  to  the  last-named  gentle- 
man, who  has  described  briefly,  and  I do  not 
doubt  authentically,  the  services  so  rendered  by 
him  to  the  law.  It  cannot  be  said  that  they 
were  noteworthy,  though  it  might  be  difficult  to 
find  a more  distinguished  person  who  has  borne 
the  title,  unless  we  make  exception  for  the  very 
father  of  literature  himself,  whom  Chaucer,  with 
amusing  illustration  of  the  way  in  which  words 
change  their  meanings,  calls  “ that  conceited 
clerke  Homere.” 

“ I was  well  acquainted,”  writes  Mr.  Edward 
Blackmore  of  Alresford,  “ with  his  parents,  and, 
being  then  in  practice  in  Gray’s-inn,  they  asked 
me  if  I could  find  employment  for  him.  He 
was  a bright,  clever-looking  youth,  and  I took 
j him  as  a clerk.  He  came  to  me  in  May,  1827, 
I and  left  in  November,  1828  ; and  I have  now 
an  account-book  which  he  used  to  keep  of  petty 
disbursements  in  the  office,  in  which  he  charged 
himself  with  the  modest  salary  first  of  thirteen 
shillings  and  sixpence,  and  afterwards  of  fifteen 
shillings  a-week.  Several  incidents  took  place 


in  the  office  of  which  he  must  have  been  a keen 
observer,  as  I recognized  some  of  them  in  his 
Pickwick  and  Nickleby ; and  I am  much  mis- 
taken if  some  of  his  characters  had  not  their 
originals  in  persons  I well  remember.  His  taste 
for  theatricals  was  much  promoted  by  a fellow- 
clerk  named  Potter,  since  dead,  with  whom  he 
chiefly  associated.  They  took  every  opportunity, 
then  unknown  to  me,  of  going  together  to  a 
minor  theatre,  where  (I  afterwards  heard)  they 
not  unfrequently  engaged  in  parts.  After  he  left 
me  I saw  him  at  times  in  the  lord  chancellor’s 
court,  taking  notes  of  cases  as  a reporter.  I 
then  lost  sight  of  him  until  his  Pickwick  made 
its  appearance.”  This  letter  indicates  the  posi- 
tion he  held  at  Mr.  Blackmore’s ; and  we  have 
but  to  turn  to  the  passage  in  Pickwick  which 
describes  the  several  grades  of  attorney’s-clerk, 
to  understand  it  more  clearly.  He  was  very  far 
below  the  articled  clerk,  who  has  paid  a pre- 
mium and  is  attorney  in  perspective.  He  was 
not  so  high  as  the  salaried  clerk,  with  nearly  the 
whole  of  his  weekly  thirty-shillings  spent  on  his 
jrersonal  pleasures.  He  was  not  even  on  a level 
with  the  middle-aged  copying  clerk,  always  needy 
and  uniformly  shabby.  He  was  simply  among, 
however  his  own  nature  may  have  lifted  him 
above,  the  “office-lads  in  their  first  surtouts, 
who  feel  a befitting  contempt  for  boys  at  day- 
schools,  club  as  they  go  home  at  night  for  save- 
loys and  porter,  and  think  there’s  nothing  like 
life.”  Thus  far,  not  more  or  less,  had  he  now 
reached.  He  was  one  of  the  office-lads,  and 
p'.'obably  in  his  first  surtout. 

But,  even  thus,  the  process  of  education  went 
on,  defying  what  seemed  to  interrupt  it ; and  in 
the  amount  of  his  present  equipment  for  his 
needs  of  life,  what  he  brought  from  the  Wel- 
lington-house academy  can  have  borne  but  the 
smallest  proportion  to  his  acquirement  at  Mr. 
Blackmore’s.  Yet  to  seek  to  identify,  without 
help  from  himself,  any  passages  in  his  books 
with  those  boyish  law-experiences,  would  be  idle 
and  hopeless  enough.  In  the  earliest  of  his 
writings,  and  down  to  the  very  latest,  he  worked 
exhaustively  the  field  which  is  opened  by  an 
attorney’s  office  to  a student  of  life  and  manners  ; 
but  we  have  not  now  to  deal  with  his  numerous 
varieties  of  the  genus  clerk  drawn  thus  for  tlie 
amusement  of  others,  but  with  the  acquisitions 
which  at  present  he  was  storing  up  for  himself 
from  the  opportunities  such  offices  openctl  to 
him.  Nor  would  it  be  possible  to  have  better 
illustrative  comment  on  all  these  years,  than  is 
furnished  by  his  father’s  reply  to  a friend  it  wns 
now  hoped  to  interest  on  his  behalf,  which  more 
than  once  I have  heard  him  whimsically  but 


SCIIOOL-DA  YS  AND  START  IN  LIFE.  23 

good-humouredly  imitate.  “ Pray,  Mr.  Dickens, 
where  was  your  son  educated?”  “Why,  in- 
deed, Sir — Ira  ! ha ! — he  may  be  said  to  have 
educated  himself ! ” Of  the  two  kinds  of  educa- 
tion which  Gibbon  says  that  all  men  who  rise 
above  the  common  level  receive ; the  first,  that 
of  his  teachers,  and  the  second,  more  personal  and 
more  important,  /lis  own;  he  had  the  advantage 
only  of  the  last.  It  nevertheless  sufficed  for  him. 

Very  nearly  another  eighteen  months  were 
now  to  be  spent  mainly  in  practical  preparation 
for  what  he  was,  at  this  time,  led  finally  to 
choose  as  an  employment  from  which  a fair 
income  was  certain  with  such  talents  as  he  pos- 
sessed ; his  father  already  having  taken  to  it,  in 
these  latter  years,  in  aid  of  the  family  resources. 
In  his  father’s  house,  which  was  at  Hampstead 
through  the  first  portion  of  the  Mornington- 
street  sehool-time,  then  in  the  house  out  of 
Seymour-street  mentioned  by  Mr.  Danson,  and 
afterwards,  upon  the  elder  Dickens  going  into 
the  gallery  as  a reporter  for  the  Morning  Herald, 
in  Bentinck-street,  Manchester-square,  Charles 
had  continued  to  live;  and,  influenced  doubt- 
less by  the  example  before  him,  he  took  sudden 
determination  to  qualify  himself  thoroughly  for 
what  his  father  was  lately  become,  a newspaper 
parliamentary  reporter.  He  set  resolutely  there- 
fore to  the  study  of  short-hand ; and,  for  the 
additional  help  of  such  general  information 
about  books  as  a fairly  educated  youth  might 
be  expected  to  have,  as  well  as  to  satisfy  som'e 
higher  personal  cravings,  he  became  an  assiduous  ' 
attendant  in  the  British-museum  reading-roomX 
He  would  frequently  refer  to  these  days  as  'cle- 
cidedly  the  usefullest  to  himself  he  had  ever 
passed;  and  judging  from  the  results  they  must 
have  been  so.  No  man  who  knew  him  in  later 
years,  and  talked  to  him  familiarly  of  books  and 
things,  would  have  suspected  his  education  in- 
^ boyhood,  almost  entirely  self-acquired  as  it  was, 
to  have  been  so  rambling  or  hap-hazard  as  I 
have  here  described  it.  The  secret  consisted  in 
this,  that,  whatever  for  the  time  he  had  to  do, 
he  lifted  himself,  there  and  then,  to  the  level  of ; 
and  at  no  time  disregarded  the  rules  that  guided 
the  hero  of  his  novel.  “Whatever  I have  tried 
^ to  do  in  life,  I have  tried  with  all  my  heart  to 
do  well.  What  I have  devoted  myself  to,  I have 
devoted  myself  to  completely.  Never  to  put 
one  hand  to  anything  on  which  I could  throw 
my  whole  self,  and  never  to  affect  depreciation 
of  my  work,  whatever  it  was,  I find  now  to  have 
been  my  golden  rules.” 

Of  the  difficulties  that  beset  his  short-hand 
studies,  as  well  as  of  what  first  turned  his  mind 
to  them,  he  has  told  also  something  in  Copperfield. 

He  had  heard  that  many  men  distinguished  in 
various  pursuits  had  begun  life  by  reporting  the 
debates  in  parliament,  and  he  was  not  deterred 
by  a friend’s  warning  that  the  mere  mechanical 
accomplishment  for  excellence  in  it  might  take  a 
few  years  to  master  thoroughly  : “ a perfect  and 
entire  command  of  the  mystery  of  short-hand 
writing  and  reading  being  about  equal  in  difficulty 
to  the  mastery  of  six  languages.”  Undaunted, he 
plunged  into  it,  self-teaching  in  this  as  in  graver 
things ; and,  having  bought  Mr.  Gurney’s  half- 
guinea book,  worked  steadily  his  way  through  ks 
distractions.  “ The  changes  that  were  rung  upo\ 
dots,  which  in  such  a position  meant  such  a\ 
thing,  and  in  such  another  position  something  ^ 
else  entirely  different ; the  wonderful  vagaries 
that  were  played  by  circles ; the  unaccountable 
consequences  that  resulted  from  marks  like  flies’ 
legs;  the  tremendous  effects  of  a curve  in  a 
wrong  place ; not  only  troubled  my  waking 
hours,  but  reappeared  before  me  in  my  sleep. 
When  I had  groped  my  way,  blindly,  through 
these  difficulties,  and  had  mastered  the  alphabet, 
there  then  appeared  a procession  of  new  horrors, 
called  arbitrary  characters;  the  most  despotic  ' 
characters  I have  ever  known ; who  insisted,  for 
instance,  that  a thing  like  the  beginning  of  a cob- 
web meant  expectation,  and  that  a pen-and-ink 
sky-rocket  stood  for  disadvantageous.  When  I 
had  fixed  these  wretches  in  my  mind,  I found 
that  they  had  driven  everything  else  out  of  it ; 
then,  beginning  again,  I forgot  them ; while  I 
^^^as  picking  them  up,  I dropped  the  other  frag-  ^ 
ments  of  the  system ; in  short,  it  was  almost  | 
heart-breaking.” 

■ What  it  was  that  made  it  not  quite  heart-  - 
breaking  to  the  hero  of  the  fiction,  its  readers 
know ; and  something  of  the  same  kind  was  now  1 
to  enter  into  the  actual  experience  of  its  writer. 
First  let  me  say,  however,  that  after  subduing  to  j 
his  wants  in  marvellously  quick  time  this  unruly  , 1 
and  unaccommodating  servant  of  stenography, 
what  he  most  desired  was  still  not  open  to  him. 

“ There  never  was  such  a short-hand  writer,”  ^ 
has  been  often  said  to  me  by  Mr.  Beard,  the 
friend  he  first  made  in  that  line  when  he  entered 
the  gallery,  and  with  whom  to  the  close  of  his 
life  he  maintained  the  friendliest  intercourse. 

But  there  was  no  opening  for  him  in  the  gallery 
yet.  He  had  to  pass  nearly  two  years  as  a 
reporter  for  one  of  the  offices  in  Doctors’-com- 
mons,  having  made  attempt  even  in  the  directioji^  , 1 
of  the  stage  to  escape  such  drudgery,  before  he 
became  a sharer  in  parliamentary  toils  and  tri-  , 
umphs  ; and  what  sustained  his  young  hero  , 1 
through  something  of  the  same  sort  of  trial,  was  ' 1 
also  his  own  support.  He,  too,  had  his  Dora,  at  | 

rl 

24 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


apparently  tire  same  hopeless  elevation  ; striven 
for  as  the  one  only  thing  to  be  attained,  and 
even  more  unattainable,  for  neither  did  he  suc- 
ceed nor  happily  did  she  die  ; but  the  one  idol, 
like  the  other,  supplying  a motive  to  exertion  for 
the  time,  and  otherwise  opening  out  to  the  idola- 
ter, both  in  fact  and  fiction,  a highly  unsubstan- 
tial, happy,  foolish  time.  I used  to  laugh  and 
tell  him  I had  no  belief  in  any  but  the  book 
Dora,  until  the  incident  of  a sudden  reappear- 
ance of  the  real  one  in  his  life,  nearly  six  years 
after  Copperfield  was  written,  convinced  me  there 
had  been  a more  actual  foundation  for  those 
chapters  of  his  book  than  I was  ready  to  suppose. 
Still  I would  hardly  admit  it;  and,  that  the 
matter  could  possibly  affect  him  then,  persisted 
in  a stout  refusal  to  believe.  His  reply  (1855) 
throws  a little  light  on  this  juvenile  part  of  his 
career,  and  I therefore  venture  to  preserve  it. 

“ I don’t  quite  apprehend  what  you  mean  by 
my  over-rating  the  strength  of  the  feeling  of  five- 
and-twenty  years  ago.  If  you  mean  of  my  own 
feeling,  and  will  only  think  what  the  desperate 
intensity  of  my  nature  is,  and  that  this  began 
when  I was  Charley’s  age  ; that  it  excluded  every 
other  idea  from  my  mind  for  four  years,  at  a 
time  of  life  when  four  years  are  equal  to  four 
times  four ; and  that  I went  at  it  with  a deter- 
mination to  overcome  all  the  difficulties,  which 
fairly  lifted  me  up  into  that  newspaper  life,  and 
floated  me  away  over  a hundred  men’s  heads  : 
then  you  are  wrong,  because  nothing  can  exagge- 
rate that.  I have  positively  stood  amazed  at 
myself  ever  since  ! — And  so  I suffered,  and  so 
worked,  and  so  beat  and  hammered  away  at  the 
! maddest  romances  that  ever  got  into  any  boy’s 
head  and  stayed  there,  that  to  see  the  mere 
cause  of  it  all,  now,  loosens  my  hold  upon  my- 
self. Without  for  a moment  sincerely  believing 
that  it  would  have  been  better  if  we  had  never 
got  separated,  I cannot  see  the  occasion  of  so 
much  emotion  as  I should  see  anyone  else.  No 
one  can  imagine  in  the  most  distant  degree  what 
pain  the  recollection  gave  me  in  Copperfield. 
And,  just  as  I can  never  open  that  book  as  I 
open  any  other  book,  I cannot  see  the  face  (even 
at  four-and-forty),  or  hear  the  voice,  without, 
going  wandering  away  over  the  ashes  of  all  that 
youth  and  hope  in  the  wildest  manner.”  More 
and  more  plainly  seen,  however,  in  the  light  of 
four-and-forty,  the  romance  glided  visibly  away, 
its  work  being  fairly  done  ; and,  at  the  close  of 
the  month  following  that  in  which  this  letter  was 
written,  during  which  he  had  very  quietly  made 
a formal  call  with  his  wife  at  his  youthful  Dora’s 
house,  and  contemplated  with  a calm  eejuani- 
mity,  in  the  hall,  her  stuffed  fiivourite  Jip,  he 


began  the  fiction  in  which  there  was  a Flora  to 
set  against  its  predecessor’s  Dora,  both  derived 
from  the  same  original.  The  fancy  had  a comic 
humour  in  it  he  found  it  impossible  to  resist,  but 
it  was  kindly  and  pleasant  to  the  last ; and  if  the 
later  picture  showed  him  plenty  to  laugh  at  in 
this  retrospect  of  his  youth,  there  was  nothing  he 
thought  of  more  tenderly  than  the  earlier,  as  long 
as  he  was  conscious  of  anything. 


IV. 

NEWSPAPER  REPORTING  AND  WRITING. 
1831—1835. 

ICKENS  was  nineteen  years  old 
when  at  last  he  entered  the  gallery. 
His  father,  with  whom  he  still  lived 
in  Bentinck-street,  had  already,  as 
we  have  seen,  joined  the  gallery  as 
a reporter  for  one  of  the  morning  papers, 
and  was  now  in  the  more  comfortable 
circumstances  derived  from  the  addition 
to  his  official  pension  which  this  praiseworthy 
labour  ensured ; but  his  own  engagement  on  the 
Chronicle  dates  somewhat  later.  His  first  parlia- 
mentary service  was  given  to  the  True  Sun,  a 
journal  which  had  on  its  editorial  staff  some  dear 
friends  of  mine,  through  whom  I became  myself 
a contributor  to  it,  and  afterwards,  in  common 
with  alt  concerned,  whether  in  its  writing,  re- 
porting, printing,  or  publishing,  a sharer  in  its 
difficulties.  The  most  formidable  of  these 
arrived  one  day  in  a general  strike  of  the  re- 
porters; and  I well  remember  noticing  at  this 
dread  time,  on  the  staircase  of  the  magnificent 
mansion  we  were  lodged  in,  a young  man  of  my 
own  age  whose  keen  animation  of  look  would 
have  arrested  attention  anywhere,  and  whose 
name,  upon  enquiry,  I then  for  the  first  time 
heard.  It  was  coupled  with  the  fact  which  gave 
it  interest  even  then,  that  “ young  Dickens  ” had 
been  spokesman  for  the  recalcitrant  reporters, 
and  conducted  their  case  triumphantly.  He  was 
.afterwards  during  two  sessions  engaged  for  the 
ofi  Parlianwii,  which  one  of  his  uncles 
byrhe  mother’s  side  originated  and  conducted  ; 
and,  finally,  in  his  twenty-third  year,  he  became 
a reporter  for  the  Morning  Chronicle. 

His  attempt  to  get  upon  the  stage  dates  im- 
mediately before  these  newspaper  engagements. 
His  Doctors’-commons  reportership  was  a living 
so  wearily  uncertain,  that  a ])ossibility  ot  the 
other  calling  had  occurred  to  him  in  quite 
a business-like  way.  He  went  to  theatres 


NEWSPAPER  REPORTING  AND  WRITING. 


almost  every  night  for  a long  time  ; studied  and 
practised  himself  in  parts  ; was  so  much  attracted 
by  the  “ At  Homes  ” of  the  elder  Mathews,  that 
he  resolved  to  make  his  first  plunge  in  a similar 
direction  j and  finally  wrote  to  make  offer  of 
himself  to  Covent  Garden.  “ I wrote  to  Bartley, 
who  was  stage-manager,  and  told  him  how  young 
I was,  and  exactly  what  I thought  I could  do  ; 
and  that  I believed  I had  a strong  perception  of 
character  and  oddity,  and  a natural  power  of  re- 
producing in  my  own  person  what  I observed  in 
others.  This  was  at  the  time  when  I was  at 
Doctors’-commons  as  a shorthand  writer  for  the 
proctors.  And  I recollect  I wrote  the  letter 
from  a little  office  I had  there, .where  the  answer 
came  also.  There  must  have  been  something  in 
my  letter  that  struck  the  authorities,  for  Bartley 
wrote  to  me  almost  immediately  to  say  that  they 
were  busy  getting  up  the  Hunchback  (so  they 
were),  but  that  they  would  communicate  with 
me  again,  in  a fortnight.  Punctual  to  the  time 
another  letter  came,  with  an  appointment  to  do 
anything  of  Mathews’s  I pleased,  before  him  and 
Charles  Kemble,  on  a certain  day  at  the  theatre. 
My  sister  Fanny  was  in  the  secret,  and  was  to  go 
with  me  to  play  the  songs.  I was  laid  up  when 
the  day  came,  with  a terrible  bad  cold  and  an 
inflammation  of  the  face ; the  beginning,  by  the 
bye,  of  that  annoyance  in  one  ear  to  which  I am 
subject  to  this  day.  I wrote  to  say  so,  and  added 
that  I would  resume  my  application  next  seaS^. 

I made  a great  splash  in  the  gallery  soon  afterx. 
wards ; the  Chronicle  opened  to  me  \ I had  a ' 
distinction  in  the  little  world  of  the  newspaper, 
which  made  one  like  it ; began  to  write ; didn’t 
want  money  ; had  never  thought  of  the  stage  but 
as  a means  of  getting  it ; gradually  left  off  turn- 
ing my  thoughts  that  way,  and  never  resumed  ' 
the  idea.  I never  told  you  this,  did  I ? Ste 
how  near  I may  have  been  to  another  soj-t  of 
life.”  The  letter  in  which  he  gave  me  this'inter- 
esting  detail,  belongs  to  another  place ; but  the 
anticipation  of  so  much  of  it  here  is  required  to 
complete  his  boyish  history. 

The  beginning  to  write  was  a thing  far  more 
momentous  to  him  (though  then  he  did  not  know 
it)  than  his  “ great  splash  ” in  the  gallery.  In 
the  December  number  for  1833  of  what  then  was 
called  the  Old  Alonthly  Magazine,  his  first  pub- 
lished piece  of  writing  had  seen  the  light.  He 
has  described  himself  dropping  this  paper  (Mr. 
Minns  and  his  Cousin,  as  he  afterwards  entitled 
it,  but  which  appeared  in  the  magazine  as  A 
Dinner  at  Poplar  Walk)  stealthily  one  evening 
at  twilight,  with  fear  and  trembling,  into  a dark 
letter-box  in  a dark  office  up  a dark  court  in 
Fleet-street  \ and  he  has  told  his  agitation  when 


25 


it  appeared  in  all  the  glory  of  print.  “ On  which 
occasion  I walked  down  to  Westminster-hall,  and 
turned  into  it  for  half  an  hour,  because  my  eyes 
were  so  dimmed  with  joy  and  pride,  that  they 
could  not  bear  the  street,  and  were  not  fit  to  be 
seen  there.”  He  had  purchased  the  magazine 
at  a shop  in  the  Strand  ; and  exactly  two  years 
afterwards,  in  the  younger  member  of  a publish- 
ing firm  who  had  called  at  his  chambers  in  Fnr- 
nival’s  Inn,  to  which  he  had  moved  soon  after 
entering  the  gallery,  with  the  proposal  that  ori- 
ginated Pickwick,  he  recognized  the  person  he 
had  bought  that  magazine  from,  and  whom 
before  or  since  he  had  never  seen. 

This  interval  of  two  years  more  than  com- 
prised what  remained  of  his  career  in  the  gallery 
and  the  engagements  connected  with  it ; but 
that  this  occupation  was  of  the  utmost  impor- 
tance in  its  influence  on  his  life,  in  the  discipline 
of  his  powers  as  well  as  of  his  character,  there 
can  be  no  doubt  whatever.  “To  the  wholesorae 
training  of  severe  newspaper  ■wt5rk,^wlren~ I was 
a very  young  man,  I constantly  refer  my  first 
successes,”  he  said  to  the  New  York  editors 
wherrhe  last  took  leave  of  them.  It  opened  to 
him  a wide  and  varied  range  of  experience, 
which  his  wonderful  observation,  exact  as  it  was 
humorous,  made  entirely  his  own.  He  saw  the 
last  of  the  old  coaching  days,  and  of  the  old  inns 
that  were  a part  of  them ; but  it  will  be  long  be- 
fore the  readers  of  his  living  page  see  the  last  of 
the  life  of  either.  “ There  never  was,”  he  once 
wrote  to^_^e  (in  1845),  “anybody  connected 
with  new.sphpers,  who,  in  the  same  space  of  time, 
had  so  much  express  and  post-chaise  experience 
as  I.  And  what  gentlemen  they  were  to  serve, 
in  such  things,  at  the  old  Mornmg  Chronicle! 
Great  or  small,  it  did  not  matter.  I have  had  to 
charge  for  half-a-dozen  break-downs  in  half-a- 
dozen  times  as  many  miles.  I have  had  to 
charge  for  the  damage  of  a great-coat  from  the 
drippings  of  a blazing  wax-candle,  in  writing 
through  the  smallest  hours  of  the  night  in  a 
swift-flying  carriage  and  pair.  I have  had  to 
charge  for  all  sorts  of  breakages  fifty  times  in  a 
journey  without  question,  such  being  the  ordi- 
nary results  of  the  pace  which  we  went  at.  I 
have  charged  for  broken  hats,  broken  luggage, 
broken  chaises,  broken  harness — everything  but 
a broken  head,  which  is  the  only  thing  thw^ 
would  have  grumbled  to  pay  for.”  /g 

Something  to  the  same  effect  he  said  publicly 
twenty  years  later,  on  the  occasion  of  his  pre- 
siding, in  May  1865,  at  the  second  annual  dinner 
of  the  newspaper-press-fund,  when  he  condensed 
within  the  compass  of  his  speech  a summary  of 
the  whole  of  his  reporting  life.  “ I am  not  here,” 


2 6 THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


he  said,  “ advocating  the  case  of  a mere  ordi- 
nary client  of  whom  I have  little  or  no  know- 
ledge. I hold  a brief  to-night  for  my  brothers. 
I went  into  the  gallery  of  the  house  of  commons 
as  a parliamentary  reporter  when  I was  a boy, 
and  I left  it — I can  hardly  believe  the  inexo- 
rable truth — nigh  thirty  years  ago.  I have  pur- 
sued the  calling  of  a reporter  under  circum- 
stances of  which  many  of  my  brethren  here 
can  form  no  adequate  conception.  I have  often 
t transcribed  for  the  printer,  from  my  shorthand 
notes,  important  public  speeches  in  which  the 
strictest  accuracy  was  required,  and  a mistake  in 
i which  would  have  been  to  a young  man  severely 
compromising,  writing  on  the  palm  of  my  hand, 
by  the  light  of  a dark  lantern,  in  a post-chaise 
and  four,  galloping  through  a wild  country,  and 
through  the  dead  of  the  night,  at  the  then  sur- 
prising rate  of  fifteen  miles  an  hour.  The  very 
last  time  I was  at  Exeter,  I strolled  into  the 
castle-yard  there  to  identify,  for  the  amusement 
of  a friend,  the  spot  on  which  I once  ‘ took,’  as 
' we  used  to  call  it,  an  election  speech  of  Lord 
John  Russell  at  the  Devon  contest,  in  the  midst 
of  a lively  fight  maintained  by  all  the  vagabonds 
in  that  division  of  the  county,  and  under  such  a 
pelting  rain,  that  I remember  two  good-natured 
colleagues  who  chanced  to  be  at  leisure  held  a 
' pocket-Jiandkerchief  over  my  note-book,  after 
' the  manner  of  a state  canopy  in  an  ecclesiastical 
: procession.  I have  worn  my  knees  by  writing 

on  them  on  the  old  back-row  of  the  old  gallery 
of  the  old  house  of  commons  ; and  I have  worn 
my  feet  by  standing  to  write  in  a preposterous 
pen  in  the  old  house  of  lords,  where  we  used  to 
be  huddled  together  like  so  many  sheep — kept  in 
1 waiting,  say,  until  the  woolsack  might  want  re- 
! stuffing.  Returning  home  from  exciting  political 
meetings  in  the  country  to  the  waiting  press 
in  London,  I do  verily  believe  I have  been 
^ upset  in  almost  every  description  of  vehicle 
known  in  this  country.  I have  been,  in  my 
. time,  belated  on  miry  by-roads,  towards  the 
small  hours,  forty  or  fifty  miles  from  London,  in 
a wheelless  carriage,  with  exhausted  horses  and 
I drunken  postboys,  and  have  got  back  in  time  for 
publication,  to  be  received  with  never-forgotten 
compliments  by  the  late  Mr.  Black,  coming  in 
the  broadest  of  Scotch  from  the  broadest  of 
hearts  I ever  knew.  These  trivial  things  I men- 
tion as  an  assurance  to  you  that  1 never  have 
forgotten  the  fascination  of  that  old  pursuit. 
The  pleasure  that  I used  to  feel  in  the  rapidity 
and  dexterity  of  its  exercise  has  never  faded  out 
of  my  breast.  Whatever  little  cunning  of  hand 
or  head  I took  to  it,  or  acquired  in  it,  1 have  so 
I retained  that  1 fully  believe  I could  resume  it 


to-morrow,  very  little  the  worse  from  long  disuse. 
To  this  present  year  of  my  life,  when  I sit  in 
this  hall,  or  where  not,  hearing  a dull  speech 
(the  p^henomenon  does  occur),  I sometimes  be- 
guile the  tedium  of  the  moment  by  mentally 
following  the  speaker  in  the  old,  old  way ; and 
sometimes,  if  you  can  believe  me,  I even  find 
my  hand  going  on  the  table-cloth,~TaEhg^' an 
imaginary  nofe~'of  it  alL”  The  latter  I have 
known  'hmT'So  frequently.  It  was  indeed  a 
quite  ordinary  habit  with  him. 

Mr.  James  Grant,  a writer  who  was  himself 
in  the  gallery  with  Dickens,  and  who  states  that 
among  its  eighty  or  ninety  reporters  he  occupied 
the  very  highest  rank,  not  merely  for  accuracy 
in  reporting  but  for  marvellous  quickness  in 
transcribing,  has  lately  also  told  us  that  while 
there  he  was  exceedingly  reserved  in  his  man- 
ners, and  that,  though  showing  the  usual  cour- 
tesies to  all  he  was  concerned  with  in  his  duties, 
the  only  personal  intimacy  he  formed  was  with 
Mr.  Thomas  Beard,  then  too  reporting  for  the 
Morning  Chronicle.  I have  already  mentioned 
the  friendly  and  familiar  relations  maintained 
with  this  gentleman  to  the  close  of  his  life  ; and 
in  confirmation  of  Mr.  Grant’s  statement  I can 
further  say  that  the  only  other  associate  of  these 
early  reporting  days  to  whom  I ever  heard  him 
refer  with  special  regard,  was  the  late  Mr.  Vin- 
cent Dowling,  many  years  editor  of  Beifs  Life, 
with  whom  he  did  not  continue  much  personal 
intercourse,  but  of  whose  character  as  well  aS' 
talents  he  had  formed  a very  high  opinion.  Nor. 
is  there  anything  to  add  to  the  notice  of  this 
time  which  the  reader’s  fancy  may  not  easily, 
supply.  A letter  has  been  kept  as  written  by 
him  while  engaged  on  one  of  his  “ expresses  ; ” 
but  it  is  less  for  its  saying  anything  new,  than 
for  its  confirming  with  a pleasant  vividness 
what  has  been  said  already,  that  its  contents  will 
justify  mention  here. 

He  writes,  on  a “Tuesday  morning”  in  May 
1835,  Bush-inn,  Bristol;  the  occasion 

that  has  taken  him  to  the  west,  connected  with 
a reporting  party,  being  Lord  John  Russell’s 
Devonshire  contest  above-named,  and  his  asso- 
ciate-chief being  Mr.  Beard,  entrusted  with  com- 
mand for  the  Chronicle  in  this  particular  ex- 
press. He  expects  to  forward  “ the  conclusion 
of  Russell’s  dinner”  by  Cooper’s  company’s 
coach  leaving  the  Bush  at  half-past  six  next 
morning ; and  by  the  first  Ball’s  coach 
on  Thursday  morning  he  will  forward  the  rei>ort 
of  the  Bath  dinner,  indorsing  the  parcel  for  im- 
mediate delivery,  with  extra  rewards  for  the 
])ortcr.  Beard  is  to  go  over  to  Bath  next  morn- 
ing. He  is  himself  to  come  back  by  the  mail 


NEWSPAPER  REPORTING  AND  WRITING.  27 

from  Marlborough ; he  has  no  doubt  if  Lord 
John  makes  a speech  of  any  ordinary  dimen- 
sions, it  can  be  done  by  the  time  Marlborough 
is  reached  ; “ and  taking  into  consideration  the 
immense  importance  of  having  the  addition  of 
saddle  horses  from  thence,  it  is,  beyond  all 

doubt,  worth  an  effort I need  not  say,” 

he  continues,  “ that  it  will  be  sharp  work  and 
will  require  two  of  us ; for  we  shall  both  be  up 
the  whole  of  the  previous  night,  and  shall  have 
'tp  sit  up  all  night  again  to  get  it  off  in  time.” 
He  adds  that  as  soon  as  they  have  had  a little 
steep  they  will  return  to  town  as  quickly  as  they 
can ; but  they  have,  if  the  express  succeeds,  to 
stop  at  sundry  places  along  the  road  to  pay 
money  and  notify  satisfaction.  And  so,  for  him- 
self and  Beard,  he  is  his  editor’s  very  sincerely. 

Another  anecdote  of  his  reporting  days,  with 
its  sequel,  may  be  added  from  his  own  alleged 
relation,  in  which  however  mistakes  occur  that 
it  seems  strange  he  should  have  made.  The 
story,  as  told,  is  that  the  late  Lord  Derby,  when 
Mr.  Stanley,  had  on  some  important  occasion 
made  a speech  which  all  the  reporters  found  it 
necessary  greatly  to  abridge ; that  its  essential 
I points  had  nevertheless  been  so  well  given  in 
the  Chro7iicle  that  Mr.  Stanley,  having  need  of 
it  for  himself  in  greater  detail,  had  sent  a re- 
quest to  the  reporter  to  meet  him  in  Carlton- 
house-terrace  and  take  down  the  entire  speech  ; 
that  Dickens  attended  and  did  the  work  accord- 
ingly, much  to  Mr.  Stanley’s  satisfaction ; and 
that,  on  his  dining  with  Mr.  Gladstone  in  recent 
years,  and  finding  the  aspect  of  the  dining-room 
strangely  familiar,  he  discovered  afterwards  on 
enquiry  that  it  was  there  he  had  taken  the 
speech.  The  story,  as  it  actually  occurred,  is 
connected  with  the  brief  life  of  the  Mirror  of 
Parliament.  It  was  not  at  any  special  desire  of 
Mr.  Stanley’s,  but  for  that  new  record  of  the  de- 
bates, which  had  been  started  by  one  of  the 
uncles  of  Dickens  and  professed  to  excel  Han- 
sard in  giving  verbatim  reports,  that  the  famous 
speech  against  O’Connell  was  taken  as  described. 
The  young  reporter  went  to  the  room  in  Carlton- 
terrace  because  the  work  of  his  uncle  Barrow’s 
publication  required  to  be  done  there ; and  if, 
in  later  years,  the  great  author  was  in  the  same 
room  as  the  guest  of  the  prime  minister,  it  must 
have  been  but  a month  or  two  before  he  died, 
when  for  the  first  time  he  visited  and  breakfasted 
with  Mr.  Gladstone. 

The  mention  of  his  career  in  the  gallery  may 
close  with  the  incident.  I will  only  add  that 
his  observation  while  there  had  not  led  him  to 
form  any  high  opinion  of  the  house  of  commons 
or  its  heroes;  and  that,  of  the  Pickwickian  sense 

which  so  often  takes  the  place  of  common  sense 
in  our  legislature,  he  omitted  no  opportunity  of 
declaring  his  contempt  at  every  part  of  his  life. 

The  other  occupation  had  meanwhile  not 
been  lost  sight  of,  and  for  this  we  are  to  go 
back  a little.  Since  the  first  sketch  appeared 
in  the  Monthly  Magazine,  nine  others  have  en-  i ' 
livened  the  pages  of  later  numbers  of  the  same 
magazine,  the  last  in  February  1835,  and  that 
which  appeared  in  the  preceding  August  having 
first  had  the  signature  of  Boz.  This  was  the 
nickname  of  a pet  child,  his  youngest  brother 
Augustus,  whom  in  honour  of  the  Vicar  of 
Wakefield  he  had  dubbed  Moses,  which  being 
facetiously  pronounced  through  the  nose  became 
Boses,  and  being  shortened  became  Boz.  “ Boz 
was  a very  familiar  household  word  to  me,  long 
before  I was  an  author,  and  so  I came  to  adopt 
it.”  Thus  had  he  fully  invented  his  sketches  by 
Boz  before  they  were  even  so  called,  or  any  one 
was  ready  to  give  much  attention  to  them  ; and 
the  next  invention  needful  to  himself  was  some  j 
kind  of  payment  in  return  for  them.  The  maga-  ' 
zine  was  owned  as  well  as  conducted  at  this  ' 
time  by  a Mr.  Holland,  who  had  come  back  ; 
from  Bolivar’s  South  American  campaigns 
with  the  rank  of  captain,  and  had  hoped  to 
make  it  a popular  mouthpiece  for  his  ardent 
liberalism.  But  this  hope,  as  well  as  his  own 
health,  quite  failed ; and  he  had  sorrowfully  to 
decline  receiving  any  more  of  the  sketches  when 
they  had  to  cease  as  voluntary  offerings.  I do  1 
not  think  that  either  he  or  the  magazine  lived 
many  weeks  after  an  evening  I passed  with  him 
in  Doughty-street,  in  1837,  when  he  spoke  in  a 
very  touching  way  of  the  failure  of  this  and  other 
enterprises  of  his  life,  and  of  the  help  that 
Dickens  had  been  to  him. 

Nothing  thus  being  forthcoming  from  the 
Mo?ithly,  it  was  of  course  but  natural  that  the 
sketches  too  should  cease  to  be  forthcoming ; 
and,  even  before  the  above-named  February 
number  appeared,  a new  opening  had  been 
found  for  them.  An  evening  off-shoot  to  the 
Morning  Chronicle  had  been  lately  in  hand ; 
and  to  a countryman  of  Black’s  engaged  in  the 
preparations  for  it,  Mr.  George  Hogarth, 
Dickens  was  communicating  from  his  rooms  in 
Furnival’s-inn,  on  the  evening  of  Tuesday  the 
2oth  of  January,  1835,  certain  hopes  and  fancies 
he  had  formed.  This  was  the  beginning  of  his 
knowledge  of  an  accomplished  and  kindly  man, 
with  whose  family  his  relations  were  soon  to 
become  so  intimate  as  to  have  an  influence  on 
all  his  future  career.  Mr.  Hogarth  had  asked 
him,  as  a favour  to  himself,  to  write  an  original 
sketch  for  the  first  number  of  the  enterprise,  and 

28  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICICENS. 


in  writing  back  to  say  with  what  readiness  he 
should  comply,  and  how  anxiously  he  should 
desire  to  do  his  best  for  the  person  who  had 
made  the  request,  he  mentioned  what  had  arisen 
in  his  mind.  It  had  occurred  to  him  that  he 
might  not  be  unreasonably  or  improperly  tres- 
passing farther  on  Mr.  Hogarth,  if,  trusting  to 
his  kindness  to  refer  the  application  to  the  pro- 
per quarter,  he  begged  to  ask  whether  it  was 
probable,  if  he  commenced  a regular  series  of 
articles  under  some  attractive  title  for  the 
Evening  Chronicle,  its  conductors  would  think 
he  had  any  claim  to  some  additional  remunera- 
tion (of  course,  of  no  great  amount)  for  doing 
so.  In  short,  he  wished  to  put  it  to  the  pro- 
prietors— first,  whether  a continuation  of  some 
chapters  of  light  papers  in  the  style  of  his  street- 
sketches  would  be  considered  of  use  to  the  new 
journal ; and  secondly,  if  so,  whether  they  would 
not  think  it  fair  and  reasonable  that,  taking  his 
share  of  the  ordinary  reporting  business  of  the 
Chronicle  besides,  he  should  receive  something 
for  the  papers  beyond  his  ordinary  salary  as  a 
reporter  1 The  request  was  thought  fair,  he 
began  the  sketches,  and  his  salary  was  raised 
from  five  to  seven  guineas  a week. 

They  went  on,  with  undiminished  spirit  and 
freshness,  throughout  the  year  ; and  much  as 
they  were  talked  of  outside  as  well  as  in  the 
world  of  newspapers,  nothing  in  connection  with 
them  delighted  the  writer  half  so  much  as  the 
hearty  praise  of  his  own  editor.  Mr.  Black  is 
one  of  the  men  who  have  passed  without  recog- 
nition out  of  a world  their  labours  largely  bene- 
fited, but  with  those  who  knew  him  no  man  was 
so  popular,  as  well  for  his  broad  kindly  humour, 
as  for  his  honest  great-hearted  enjoyment  of 
whatever  was  excellent  in  others.  Dickens  to 
the  last  remembered,  that  it  was  most  of  all  the 
cordial  help  of  this  good  old  mirth-loving  man, 
which  had  started  him  joyfully  on  his  career  of 
letters.  It  was  John  Black  that  flung  the  slip- 
per after  me,  he  would  often  say.  “ Dear  old 
Black  ! my  first  hearty  out-and-out  appreciator,” 
is  an  expression  in  one  of  his  letters  written  to 
me  in  the  year  he  died. 

V. 

FIRST  BOOK,  AND  ORIGIN  OF  PICKWICK. 

1836. 

'^HE  opening  of  1836  found  him  collecting 

-L  into  two  volumes  the  first  series  of  Sketches 
by  Boz,  of  which  he  had  sold  tlie  copyright  for 
a conditional  payment  of  (I  think)  a hundred 


and  fifty  pounds  to  a young  publisher  named 
Macrone,  whose  acquaintance  he  had  'made 
through  Mr.  Ainsworth  a few  weeks  before. 
At  this  time  also,  we  are  told  in  a letter 
before  quoted,  the  editorship  of  the  Monthly 
Magazine  having  come  into  Mr.  James  Grant’s 
hands,  this  gentleman,  applying  to  him  through 
its  previous  editor  to  know  if  he  would  again 
contribute  to  it,  learnt  two  things : the  first 
that  he  was  going  to  be  married,  and  the 
second  that  having  entered  into  an  arrange- 
ment to  write  a monthly  serial  his  duties  in 
future  would  leave  him  small  spare  time.  Both 
pieces  of  news  were  soon  confirmed.  The  Times 
of  the  26th  of  March,  1836,  gave  notice  that  on 
the  31st  would  be  published  the  first  shilling 
number  of  the  Posthumous  Papers  of  the  Pick- 
wick Club,  edited  by  Boz  ; and  the  same  journal 
of  a few  days  later  announced  that  on  the  2nd 
of  April  Mr.  Charles  Dickens  had  married 
Catherine,  the  eldest  daughter  of  Mr.  George 
Hogarth,  whom  already  we  have  met  as  his 
fellow-worker  on  the  Chronich.  The  honey- 
moon was  passed  in  the  neighbourhood  to  which 
at  all  times  of  interest  in  his  life  he  turned  with 
a strange  recurring  fondness;  and  while  the 
young  couple  are  at  the  quiet  little  village  of 
Chalk,  on  the  road  between  Gravesend  and 
Rochester,  I will  relate  exactly  the  origin  of  the 
ever-memorable  Mr.  Pickwick. 

A new  publishing  house  had  started  recently, 
among  other  enterprises  ingenious  rather  than 
important,  a Library  of  P'iction ; among  the 
authors  they  wished  to  enlist  in  it  was  the 
writer  of  the  sketches  in  the  Monthly ; and,  to 
the  extent  of  one  paper  during  the  past  year, 
they  had  effected  this  through  their  editor,  Mr. 
Cliarles  ^Vhitehead,  a very  ingenious  and  a very 
unfortunate  man.  “ I was  not  aware,”  wrote 
the  elder  member  of  the  firm  to  Dickens,  thir- 
teen years  later,  in  a letter  to  which  reference 
was  made*'  in  the  preface  to  Pickwick  in  one  of 
his  later  editions,  “ that  you  were  writing  in  the 
Chronicle,  or  what  your  name  was  ; but  White- 
head,  who  was  an  old  Monthly  man,  recollected  it, 
and  got  you  to  write  The  Tuggs's  at  Ramsgate.” 

And  now  comes  another  person  on  the  scene. 

* Not  quoted  in  detail,  on  that  or  any  other  occasion ; 
though  referred  to.  It  was  however  placed  in  my  hands, 
for  use  if  oceasion  should  arise,  when  Dickens  went  tO' 
Ameiica  in  1867.  The  letter  bears  date  the  7th  July. 
1849,  and  was  Mr.  Chapman’s  answer  to  the  question 
Dickens  had  asked  him,  whether  the  account  01  the 
origin  of  which  he  had  given  in  the  preface  to 

the  cheap  edition  in  1847  was  not  strictly  correct  ? “ It 

is  so  correctly  dcscribecl,”  was  Mr.  Chapman’s  opening 
remark,  “ that  I can  throw  but  little  additional  light  on 
it.”  The  name  of  his  hero,  I may  add,  Dickens  took 
from  that  of  a celebrated  coach-pro))rietor  of  Bath. 


FIRST  BOOK,  AND  ORIGIN  OF  PICKWICK. 


“ In  November  1835,”  continues  Mr.  Chapman, 
“ we  published  a little  book  called  the  Squib 
Annual,  with  plates  by  Seymour;  and  it  was 
during  my  visit  to  him  to  see  after  them,  that  he 
said  he  should  like  to  do  a series  of  cockney- 
sporting  plates  of  a superior  sort  to  those  he 
had  already  published.  I said  I thought  they 
might  do,  if  accompanied  by  letter-press  and  pub- 
lished in  monthly  parts ; and  this  being  agreed 
to,  we  wrote  to  the  author  of  Three  Courses  and 
a. .Dessert,  and  proposed  it;  but  receiving  no 
answer,  the  scheme  dropped  for  some  months, 
till  Seymour  said  he  wished  us  to  decide,  as 
another  job  had  offered  which  would  fully  occupy 
his  time ; and  it  was  on  this  we  decided  to  ask 
you  to  do  it.  Having  opened  already  a connec- 
tion with  you  for  our  Library  of  Fiction,  we 
naturally  applied  to  you  to  do  the  Pickwick; 
but  I do  not  think  we  even  mentioned  our  in- 
tention to  Mr.  Seymour,  and  I am  quite  sure 
that  from  the  beginning  to  the  end  nobody  but 
yourself  had  anything  whatever  to  do  with  it. 
Our  prospectus  was  out  at  the  end  of  February, 
and  it  had  all  been  arranged  before  that 
date.” 

The  member  of  the  firm  who  carried  the  appli- 
cation to  him  in  Furnival’s-inn,  was  not  the  writer 
of  this  letter,  but  Mr.  Hall,  who  had  sold  him 
two  years  before,  not  knowing  that  he  was  the 
purchaser,  the  magazine  in  which  his  first  effusion 
was  printed ; and  he  has  himself  described  what 
passed  at  the  interview.  “ The  idea  propounded 
to  me  was  that  the  monthly  something  should  be 
a vehicle  for  certain  plates  to  be  executed  by 
Mr.  Seymour ; and  there  was  a notion,  either  on 
the  part  of  that  admirable  humorous  artist,  or  of 
my  visitor,  that  a Nimrod  Club,  the  members 
of  which  were  to  go  out  shooting,  fishing,  and 
so  forth,  and  getting  themselves  into  difficulties 
through  their  want  of  dexterity,  would  be  the 
best  means  of  introducing  these.  I objected,  on 
consideration,  that  although  born  and  partly  bred 
in  the  country,  I was  no  great  sportsman,  except 
in  regard  to  all  kinds  of  locomotion ; that  the 
idea  was  not  novel,  and  had  already  been  much 
used ; that  it  would  be  infinitely  better  for  the 
plates  to  arise  naturally  out  of  the  text ; and  that 
I would  like  to  take  my  own  way,  with  a freer 
range  of  English  scenes  and  people,  and  was 
afraid  I should  ultimately  do  so  in  any  case, 
whatever  course  I might  prescribe  to  myself  at 
starting.  My  views  being  deferred  to,  I thought 
of  Mr.  Pickwick,  and  wrote  the  first  number ; 
from  the  proof  sheets  of  which  Mr.  Seymour 
made  his  drawing  of  the  club  and  his  happy 
portrait  of  its  founder.  I connected  Mr.  Pick- 
wick with  a club,  because  of  the  original  sugges- 


tion ; and  I put  in  Mr.  Winkle  expressly  for  the 
use  of  Mr.  Seymour.” 

Mr.  Hall  was  dead  when  this  statement  was 
first  made,  in  the  preface  to  the  cheap  edition 
in  1847  ; but  Mr.  Chapman  clearly  recollected 
his  partner’s  account  of  the  interview,  and  con- 
firmed every  part  of  it,  in  his  letter  of  1849,* 
with  one  exception.  In  giving  Mr.  Seymour 
credit  for  the  figure  by  which  all  the  habitable 
globe  knows  Mr.  Pickwick,  and  which  certainly 
at  the  outset  helped  to  make  him  a reality,  it 
had  given  the  artist  too  much.  The  reader  will 
hardly  be  so  startled  as  I was  on  coming  to  the 
closing  line  of  Mr.  Chapman’s  confirmatory  letter. 

“ As  this  letter  is  to  be  historical  I may  as  well 
claim  what  little  belongs  to  me  in  the  matter, 
and  that  is  the  figure  of  Pickwick.  Seymour’s 
first  sketch  was  of  a long,  thin  man.  The  pre- 
sent immortal  one  he  made  from  my  description 
of  a friend  of  mine  at  Richmond,  a fat  old  beau 
who  would  wear,  in  spite  of  the  ladies’  protests, 
drab  tights  and  black  gaiters.  His  name  was. 
John  Foster.” 

On  the  coincidences,  resemblances,  and  sur-...^ 
prises  of  life,  Dickens  liked  especially  to  dwell,, 
and  few  things  moved  his  fancy  so  pleasantly. 
The  world,  he  would  say,  was  so  much  smaller 
than  we  thought  it ; we  were  all  so  connected 
by  fate  without  knowing  it ; people  supposed  to 
be  far  apart  were  so  constantly  elbowing  each 
other ; and  to-morrow  bore  so  close  a resem- 
blance to  nothing  half  so  much  as  to  yesterday. 
Here  were  the  only  two  leading  incidents  of  his 
Qwn  life  before  I knew  him,  his  marriage  and  the 
first  appearance  of  his  Pickwick ; and  it  turned 
out  after  all  that  I had  some  shadowy  association, 
with  both.  He  was  married  on  the  anniversary 
of  my  birthday,  and  the  original  of  the  figure  of 
Mr.  Pickwick  bore  my  name. 

The  first  number  had  not  yet  appeared  when 
his  Sketches  by  Boz,  Illustrative  of  Every-Day 
Life  and  Every-Day  People,  came  forth  in  two 
duodecimos  with  some  capital  cuts  by  Cruik- 
shank,  and  with  a preface  in  which  he  spoke  of 
the  nervousness  he  should  have  had  in  venturing 
alone  before  the  public,  and  of  his  delight  in 
getting  the  help  of  Cruikshank,  who  had  fre- 
quently contributed  to  the  success,  though  his 
well-earned  reputation  rendered  it  impossible  for 
him  ever  to  have  sharecP-Ihe  hazard,  of  similar 
undertakings.  It  very  soon  became  apparent 

* The  appeal  was  then  made  to  him  because  of  recent 
foolish  statements  by  members  of  Mr.  Seymour’s  family,, 
which  Dickens  formally  contradicted.  The  “ written 
testimony  ” to  which  on  this  occasion  he  referred  in  sup- 
port of  his  averments,  he  placed  in  my  hands  on  quitting 
England  for  his  last  visit  to  America  ; and  it  remains  in 
my  possession. 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DLCKENS. 


that  there  was  no  hazard  here.  The  Sketches 
were  much  more  talked  about  than  the  first  two 
or  three  numbers  of  Pickwick,  and  I remember 
still  with  what  hearty  praise  the  book  was  first 
named  to  me  by  my  dear  friend  Albany  Fon- 
blanque,  as  keen  and  clear  a judge  as  ever  lived 
either  of  books  or  men.  Richly  did  it  merit  all 
the  praise  it  had,  and  more,  I will  add,  than  he 
j was  ever  disposed  to  give  to  it  himself.  He 

j decidedly  underrated  it.  He  gave,  in  subsequent 

writings,  so  much  more  perfect  form  and  fullness 
I to  everything  it  contained,  that  he  did  not  care 
j to  credit  himself  with  the  marvel  of  having  yet 
so  early  anticipated  so  much.  But  the  first 
sprightly  runnings  of  his  genius  are  undoubtedly 
here.  Mr.  Bumble  is  in  the  parish  sketches, 

' and  Mr.  Dawkins  the  dodger  in  the  Old-bailey 

j , scenes.  There  is  laughter  and  fun  to  excess, 

j never  misapplied ; there  are  the  minute  points 

I and  shades  of  character,  with  all  the  discrimina- 

' tion  and  nicety  of  detail,  afterwards  so  famous  ; 

there  is  everywhere  the  most  perfect  ease  and  skill 
of  handling.  The  observation  shown  throughout 
is  nothing  short  of  wonderful.  Things  are  painted 
literally  as  they  are ; and,  whatever  the  picture, 
whether  of  every-day  vulgar,  shabby  genteel,  or 
downright  low,  with  neither  the  condescending 
air  which  is  affectation,  nor  the  too  familiar  one 
which  is  slang.  The  book  altogether  is  a per- 
fectly unaffected,  unpretentious,  honest  perform- 
ance. Under  its  manly  sensible  straightforward 
; vein  of  talk,  there  is  running  at  the  same  time  a 
! natural  flow  of  sentiment  never  sentimental,  of 
j i humour  always  easy  and  unforced,  and  of  pathos 
■ 1 for  the  most  part  dramatic  or  picturesque,  under 
I which  lay  the  germ  of  what  his  mature  genius 
took  afterwards  most  delight  in.  Of  course 
I there  are  inequalities  in  it,  and  some  things  that 
would  have  been  better  away  : but  it  is  a book 
that  might  have  stood  its  ground,  even  if  it  had 
' stood  alone,  as  containing  unusually  truthful 
observation  of  a sort  of  life  between  the  middle 
; class  and  the  low,  which,  having  few  attractions 
for  bookish  observers,  was  quite  unhacknied 
ground.  It  had  otherwise  also  the  very  special 
" merit  of  being  in  no  respect  bookish  or  com- 
monplace in  its  descriptions  of  the  old  city  with 
which  its  writer  was  so  familiar.  It  was  a picture 
of  every-day  London  at  its  best  and  worst,  in  its 
humours  and  enjoyments  as  well  as  its  sufferings 
and  sins,  pervaded  everywhere  not  only  with  the 
absolute  reality  of  the  things  depicted,  but  also 
with  that  subtle  sense  and  mastery  of  feeling 
which  gives  to  the  reader’s  symi)athies  invariably 
right  direction,  and  awakens  consideration,  ten- 
derness, and  kindness  precisely  for  those  who 
most  need  such  help. 


Between  the  first  and  the  second  numbers  of 
Ficktvick,  the  artist,  Mr.  Seymour,  died  by  his 
own  hand  ; and  the  number  came  out  with  three 
instead  of  four  illustrations.  Dickens  had  seen 
the  unhappy  man  only  once,  forty-eight  hours 
before  his  death ; when  he  went  to  Furnival’s- 
inn  with  an  etching  for  the  “ stroller’s-tale  ” in 
that  number,  which,  altered  at  Dickens’s  sug- 
gestion, he  brought  away  again  for  the  few  further 
touches  that  occupied  him  to  a late  hour  of  the 
night  before  he  destroyed  himself.  A notice 
attached  to  the  number  informed  the  public  of 
this  latter  fact.  There  was  at  first  a little  diffi- 
culty in  replacing  him,  and  for  a single  number 
Mr.  Buss  was  interposed.  But  before  the  fourth 
number  a choice  had  been  made,  which  as  time 
went  on  was  so  thoroughly  justified,  that  through 
the  greater  part  of  the  wonderful  career  Avhich 
was  then  beginning  the  connection  was  kept  up, 
and  Mr.  Hablot  Browne’s  name  is  not  unworthily 
associated  with  the  masterpieces  of  Dickens’s 
genius.  An  incident  which  I heard  related  by 
Mr.  Thackeray  at  one  of  the  royal-academy  din- 
ners belongs  to  this  time.  “ I can  remember 
when  Mr.  Dickens  was  a very  young  man,  and 
had  commenced  delighting  the  world  with  some 
charming  humorous  works  in  covers  which  were 
coloured  light  green  and  came  out  once  a month, 
that  this  young  man  wanted  an  artist  to  illustrate 
his  writings ; and  I recollect  walking  up  to  his 
chambers  in  Furnival’s-inn,  with  two  or  three 
drawings  in  my  hand,  which,  strange  to  say,  he 
did  not  find  suitable.”  Dickens  has  himself 
described  another  change  now  made  in  the  pub- 
lication. “ We  started  with  a number  of  twenty- 
four  pages  and  four  illustrations.  Mr.  Seymour’s 
sudden  and  lamented  death  before  the  second 
number  was  published,  brought  about  a quick 
decision  upon  a point  already  in  agitation ; the 
number  became  one  of  thirty-two  pages  with  only 
two  illustrations,  and  remained  so  to  the  end.” 

The  Session  of  1836  terminated  his  connec- 
tion with  the  gallery,  and  some  fruits  of  his  in- 
creased leisure  showed  themselves  before  the 
close  of  the  year.  His  elder  sister’s  musical  ; 
attainments  and  connections  had  introduced  him 
to  many  cultivators  and  professors  of  that  art ; 
he  was  led  to  take  much  interest  in  Mr.  Braham’s 
enterprise  at  the  St.  James’s-theatre ; and  in  aid 
of  it  he  wrote  a farce  for  Mr.  Harley,  founded 
upon  one  of  his  sketches,  and  the  story  ami 
songs  for  an  opera  composed  by  his  friend  Mr. 
Hullah.  Both  the  Strange  Ccntlcman,  acted  in 
September,  and  the  Village  Co(picttcs,  j)roduccd 
in  December,  1836,  had  a good  success;  and 
the  last  is  memorable  to  me  for  having  brought  me 
first  into  personal  communication  with  Dickons. 


I 


WRITING  THE  PICKWICK  PAPERS. 


31 


BOOK  SECOND.— FIRST  FIVE  YEARS  OF  FAME. 
1836 — 1841.  JEt.  24 — 29. 


I.  Writing  the  Pickwick  Papers. 

II.  Between  Pickwick  and  Nickleby. 

III.  Oliver  Twist. 

IV.  Nichol.as  Nickleby. 

V.  During  and  After  Nickleby. 

VI.  New  Liter.yry  Project. 


VII.  Old  Curiosity  Shop. 

VIII.  Devonshire  Terrace  and  Broadstairs. 

IX.  Barnaby  Rudge. 

X.  In  Edinburgh. 

XI.  In  the  Highlands. 

XII.  Again  at  Broadstairs. 


I. 

WRITING  THE  PICKWICK  PAPERS. 

1837- 

HE  first  letter  I had  from  him  was  at 
the  close  of  1836  from  Furnival’s- 
inn,  when  he  sent  me  the  book  of 
his  opera  of  the  Village  Coquettes, 
which  had  been  published  by  Mr. 
Bentley;  and  this  was  followed,  two 
months  later,  by  his  collected  Sketches, 
both  first  and  second  series;  which  he 
desired  me  to  receive  “ as  a very  small  testimony 
of  the  donor’s  regard  and  obligations,  as  well  as 
of  his  desire  to  cultivate  and  avail  himself  of  a 
friendship  which  has  been  so  pleasantly  thrown 

in  his  way In  short,  if  you  will  receive 

them  for  my  sake  and  not  for  their  own,  you 
will  very  greatly  oblige  me.”  I had  met  him  in 
the  interval  at  the  house  of  our  common  friend 
Mr.  Ainsworth,  and  I remember  vividly  the  im- 
pression then  made  upon  me. 

Veiy  different  was  his  face  in  those  days  from 
that  which  photography  has  made  familiar  to  the 
present  generation.  A look  of  youthfulness 
first  attracted  you,  and  then  a candour  and  open- 
ness of  expression  which  made  you  sure  of  the 
qualities  within.  The  features  were  very  good. 
He  had  a capital  forehead,  a firm  nose  with  full 
wide  nostril,  eyes  wonderfully  beaming  with  in- 
tellect and  running  over  with  humour  and  cheer- 
fulness, and  a rather  prominent  mouth  strongly 
marked  with  sensibility.  The  head  was  alto- 
gether well-formed  and  symmetrical,  and  the  air 
and  carriage  of  it  were  extremely  spirited.  The 
hair  so  scant  and  grizzled  in  later  days  was  then 
of  a rich  brown  and  most  luxuriant  abundance, 
and  the  bearded  face  of  his  last  two  decades  had 
hardly  a vestige  of  hair  or  whisker ; but  there 
was  that  in  the  face  as  I first  recollect  it  which 
no  time  could  change,  and  which  remained  im- 
planted on  it  unalterably  to  the  last.  This  was 
th^  quickness,  keenness,  and  practical  power. 


the  eager,  restless,  energetic  outlook  on  each 
several  feature,  that  seemed  to  tell  so  little  of  a 
student  or  writer  of  books,  and  so  much  of  a 
man  of  action  and  business  in  the  world.  Light 
and  motion  flashed  from  every  part  of  it.  It 
was  as  if  made  of  steel,  was  said  of  it,  four  or 
five  years  after  the  time  to  which  I am  referring, 
by  a most  original  and  delicate  observer,  the 
late  Mrs.  Carlyle.  “ What  a face  is  his  to  meet 
in  a drawing-room  ! ” wrote  Leigh  Hunt  to  me, 
the  morning  after  I made  them  known  to  each 
other.  “ It  has  the  life  and  soul  in  it  of  fifty 
human  beings.”  In  such  sayings  are  expressed 
not  alone  the  restless  and  resistless  vivacity  and 
force  of  which  I have  spoken,  but  that  also 
which  lay  beneath  them  of  steadiness  and  hard 
endurance. 

Several  unsuccessful  efforts  were  made  by 
each  to  get  the  other  to  his  house  before  the 
door  of  either  was  opened  at  last.  A son  had 
been  born  to  him  on  twelfth-day  (the  6th  January 
1837),  and  before  the  close  of  the  following 
month  he  and  his  wife  were  in  the  lodgings  at 
Chalk  they  had  occupied  after  their  marriage. 
Early  in  March  there  is  a letter  from  him  ac- 
counting for  the  failure  of  a promise  to  call  on 
me  because  of  “ a crew  of  house  agents  and 
attornies,”  through  whom  he  had  nearly  missed 
his  conveyance  to  Chalk,  and  been  made  “ more 
than  half  wild  besides.”  This  was  his  last  letter 
from  Furnival’s-inn.  In  that  same  month  he 
went  to  48,  Doughty-street ; and  in  his  first 
letter  to  me  from  that  address,  dated  at  the  close 
of  the  month,  there  is  this  passage.  “We  only 
called  upon  you  a second  time  in  the  hope  of 
getting  you  to  dine  with  us,  and  were  much  dis- 
appointed not  to  find  you.  I have  delayed 
writing  a reply  to  your  note,  meaning  to  call 
upon  you.  1 have  been  so  much  engaged,  how- 
ever, in  the  pleasant  occupation  of  ‘ moving  ’ 
that  I have  not  had  time ; and  I am  obliged  at 
last  to  write  and  say  that  I have  been  long 
engaged  to  the  Pickwick  publishers  to  a dinner 
in  honour  of  that  hero  which  comes  off  to-mor- 
row. I am  consequently  unable  to  accept  your 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


32 


kind  invite,  which  I frankly  own  I should  have 
liked  much  better.” 

That  Saturday’s  celebration  of  his  twelfth 
number,  the  anniversary  of  the  birth  of  Pickwick, 
preceded  by  but  a few  weeks  a personal  sorrow 
which  profoundly  moved  him.  His  wife’s  next 
youngest  sister,  Mary,  who  lived  with  them,  and 
by  sweetness  of  nature  even  more  than  by 
graces  of  person  had  made  herself  the  ideal  of 
his  life,  died  with  a terrible  suddenness  that  for 
the  time  completely  bore  him  down.*  His 
grief  and  suffering  rvere  intense,  and  affected 
him,  as  will  be  seen,  through  many  after  years. 
The  publication  of  Pickwick  was  interrupted  for 
two  months,  the  effort  of  writing  it  not  being 
possible  to  him.  He  moved  for  change  of  scene 
to  Hampstead,  and  here,  at  the  close  of  May,  I 
visited  him,  and  became  first  his  guest.  More 
than  ordinarily  susceptible  at  the  moment  to  all 
kindliest  impressions,  his  heart  opened  itself  to 
mine.  I left  him  as  much  his  friend,  and  as 
entirely  in  his  confidence,  as  if  I had  known  him 
for  years.  Nor  had  many  weeks  passed  before 
he  addressed  to  me  from  Doughty-street  words 
which  it  is  my  sorrowful  pride  to  remember  have 
had  literal  fulfilment.  “ I look  back  with  un- 
mingled pleasure  to  every  link  which  each  ensu- 
ing week  has  added  to  the  chain  of  our  attach- 
ment. It  shall  go  hard,  I hope,  ere  anything 
but  Death  impairs  the  toughness  of  a bond  now 
so  firmly  riveted.”  It  remained  unweakened 
till  death  came. 

There  were  circumstances  that  drew  us  at 
once  into  frequent  and  close  communication. 
What  the  sudden  popularity  of  his  writings  im- 
plied, was  known  to  others  some  time  before  it 
was  known  to  himself ; and  he  was  only  now 
becoming  gradually  conscious  of  all  the  disad- 
vantage this  had  placed  him  at.  He  would 
have  laughed  if,  at  this  outset  of  his  wonderful 
fortune  in  literature,  his  genius  acknowledged 
by  all  without  misgiving,  young,  popular,  and 
prosperous,  any  one  had  compared  him  to  the 
luckless  men  of  letters  of  former  days,  whose 
common  fate  was  to  be  sold  into  a slavery  which 
their  later  lives  were  passed  in  vain  endeavours 
to  escape  from.  Not  so  was  his  fate  to  be,  yet 
something  of  it  he  was  doomed  to  experience. 
He  had  unwittingly  sold  himself  into  a quasi- 
bondage, and  had  to  purchase  his  liberty  at  a 
heavy  cost,  after  considerable  suffering. 

It  was  not  until  the  fourth  or  fifth  number  of 
Pickivick  (in  the  latter  Sam  Weller  made  his  first 

* Her  cj)itapli,  written  by  liini,  remains  upon  a grave- 
stone in  the  cemetery  at  Kensai-green.  “ Young,  beau- 
tiful, and  good,  God  numbered  her  among  his  angels  at 
the  early  age  of  seventeen.” 


appearance)  that  its  importance  began  to  be  un- 
derstood by  “ the  trade,”  and  on  the  eve  of  the 
issue  of  its  sixth  number,  the  22nd  August  1836, 
he  had  signed  an  agreement  with  Mr.  Bentley 
to  undertake  the  editorship  of  a monthly  maga- 
zine to  be  started  the  following  January,  tO’ 
which  he  was  to  supply  a serial  story ; and  soon 
afterwards  he  had  agreed  with  the  same  pub- 
lisher to  write  two  other  tales,  the  first  at  a 
specified  early  date  •,  the  expressed  remunera- 
tion in  each  case  being  certainly  inadequate  to 
the  claims  of  a writer  of  any  marked  popularity. 
Under  these  Bentley  agreements  he  was  now 
writing,  month  by  month,  the  first  half  of  Oliver 
Twist,  and  under  his  Chapman  and  Hall  agree- 
ment, the  last  half  of  Pickwick,  not  even  by  a 
week  in  advance  of  the  printer  with  either ; 
when  a circumstance  became  known  to  him  of 
which  he  thus  wrote  to  me. 

“ I heard  half-an-hour  ago,  on  authority  which 
leaves  me  in  no  doubt  about  the  matter  (from 
the  binder  of  Pickwick  in  fact),  that  Macrone 
intends  publishing  a new  issue  of  my  Sketches  in 
monthly  parts  of  nearly  the  same  size  and  in, 
just  the  same  form  as  the  Pickwick  Papers.  I 
need  not  tell  you  that  this  is  calculated  to  injure 
me  most  seriously,  or  that  I have  a very  natural 
and  most  decided  objection  to  being  supposed 
to  presume  upon  the  success  of  the  Pickivick, 
and  thus  foist  this  old  work  upon  the  public  in 
its  new  dress  for  the  mere  purpose  of  putting 
money  in  my  own  pocket.  Neither  need  I say 
that  the  fact  of  my  name  being  before  the  town 
attached  to  three  publications  at  the  same  time, 
must  prove  seriously  ])rejudicial  to  my  reputa- 
tion. As  you  are  acquainted  with  the  circum- 
stances under  which  these  copyrights  were  dis- 
posed of,  and  as  i know  I may  rely  on  yomr 
kind  help,  may  I beg  you  to  see  Macrone,  and 
to  state  in  the  strongest  and  most  emphatic 
manner  my  feeling  on  this  point.  I wish  him 
to  be  reminded  of  the  sums  he  paid  for  those 
books  j of  the  sale  he  has  had  for  them  ; of  the 
extent  to  which  he  has  already  pushed  them; 
and  of  the  very  great  profits  he  must  necessarily 
have  acquired  from  them.  I wish  him  also  to 
be  reminded  that  no  intention  of  publishing 
them  in  this  form  was  in  the  remotest  manner 
hinted  to  me,  by  him  or  on  his  behalf,  when  he 
obtained  possession  of  the  copyright.  1 then 
wish  you  to  i)ut  it  to  his  feelings  of  common 
honesty  and  fair-dealing,  whether  after  this  com- 
munication he  will  persevere  in  his  intention.” 
What  else  the  letter  contained  need  not  be 
(pioted,  but  it  strongly  moved  me  to  do  my 
best. 

I found  Mr.  Macrone  inaccessible  to  all  argu- 


WRITING  THE  PICKWICK  PAPERS.  33 


ments  of  persuasion  liowever.  That  he  had 
bought  the  book  for  a small  sum  at  a time  when 
the  smallest  was  not  unimportant  to  the  writer, 
shortly  before  his  marriage,  and  that  he  had 
since  made  very  considerable  profits  by  it,  in  no 
way  disturbed  his  position  that  he  had  a right 
to  make  as  much  as  he  could  of  what  was  his, 
without  regard  to  how  it  had  become  so.  There 
was  nothing  for  it  but  to  change  front,  and,  ad- 
mitting it  might  be  a less  evil  to  the  unlucky 
author  to  repurchase  than  to  let  the  monthly 
issue  proceed,  to  ask  what  further  gain  was 
looked  for  ; but  so  wide  a mouth  was  opened  at 
this  that  I would  have  no  part  in  the  costly 
process  of  filling  it.  I told  Dickens  so,  and 
strongly  counselled  him  to  keep  quiet  for  a 
time. 

But  the  worry  and  vexation  were  too  great 
with  all  the  work  he  had  in  hand,  and  I was 
hardly  surprised  next  day  to  receive  the  letter 
sent  me ; which  yet  should  be  prefaced  with  the 
remark  that  suspense  of  any  kind  was  at  all 
times  intolerable  to  the  writer.  The  interval 
between  the  accomplishment  of  anything,  and 
“ its  first  motion,”  Dickens  never  could  endure, 
and  he  was  too  ready  to  make  any  sacrifice  to 
abridge  or  end  it.  This  did  not  belong  to  the 
strong  side  of  his  character,  and  advantage  was 
frequently  taken  of  the  fact.  “ I sent  down  just 
now  to  know  whether  you  were  at  home  (two 
o’clock),  as  Chapman  and  Hall  were  with  me, 
and,  the  case  being  urgent,  I wished  to  have  the 
further  benefit  of  your  kind  advice  and  assistance. 
Macrone  and  his  friend  (arcades  ambo)  waited 
on  them  this  morning,  and  after  a long  discus- 
sion peremptorily  refused  to  take  one  farthing 
less  than  the  two  thousand  pounds.  The  friend 
repeated  the  statement  of  figures  which  he  made 
to  you  yesterday,  and  put  it  to  Hall  whether  he 
could  say  from  his  knowledge  of  such  matters 
that  the  estimate  of  probable  profit  was  exor- 
bitant. Hall,  whose  judgment  may  be  relied 
on  in  such  matters,  could  not  dispute  the  justice 
of  the  calculation.  And  so  the  matter  stood. 
In  this  dilemma  it  occurred  to  them  (my  Pick- 
wick men),  whether,  if  the  Sketches  must  appear 
in  monthly  numbers,  it  would  not  be  better  for 
them  to  appear  for  their  benefit  and  mine  con- 
jointly, than  for  Macrone’s  sole  use  and  behoof; 
whether  they,  having  all  the  Pickwick  machinery 
in  full  operation,  could  not  obtain  for  them  a 
much  larger  sale  than  Macrone  could  ever  get ; 
and  whether,  even  at  this  large  price  of  two 
thousand  pounds,  we  might  not,  besides  retain- 
ing the  copyright,  reasonably  hope  for  a good 
profit  on  the  outlay.  These  suggestions  having 
presented  themselves,  they  came  straight  to  me 


(having  obtained  a few  hours’  respite),  and  pro- 
posed that  we  should  purchase  the  copyrights 
between  us  for  the  two  thousand  pounds,  and 
publish  them  in  monthly  parts.  I need  not  say 
that  no  other  form  of  publication  would  repay 
the  expenditure ; and  they  wish  me  to  explain 
by  an  address  that  they,  who  may  be  fairly  put 
forward  as  the  parties,  have  been  driven  into 
that  mode  of  publication,  or  the  copyrights 
would  have  been  lost.  I considered  the  matter 
in  every  possible  way.  I sent  for  you,  but  you 
were  out.  I thought  of”  (what  need  not  be 
repeated,  now  that  all  is  past  and  gone)  “ and 
consented.  Was  I right?  I think  you  will  say 
yes.”  I could  not  say  no,  though  I was  glad  to 
have  been  no  party  to  a price  so  exorbitant ; 
which  yet  profited  extremely  little  the  person 
who  received  it.  He  died  in  hardly  more  than 
two  years;  and  if  Dickens  had  enjoyed  the 
most  liberal  treatment  at  his  hands,  he  could  not 
have  exerted  himself  more  generously  for  the 
widow  and  children. 

His  new  story  was  now  beginning  largely  to 
share  attention  with  his  Pickwick  Papers,  and  it 
was  delightful  to  see  how  real  all  its  people  — 
became  to  him.  What  I had  most  indeed  to 
notice  in.  him,  at  the  very  outset  of  his  career, 
was  his  indifference  to  any  praise  of  his  per- 
formances on  the  merely  literary  side,  compared 
with  the  higher  recognition  of  them  as  bits  of 
actual  life,  with  the  meaning  and  purpose  on 
their  part,  and  the  responsibility  on  his,  of 
realities  rather  than  creatures  of  fancy.  The 
exception  that  might  be  drawn  from  Pickwick  is 
rather  in  seeming  than  substance.  A first  book 
has  its  immunities,  and  the  distinction  of  this 
from  the  rest  of  the  writings  appears  in  what  has 
been  said  of  its  origin.  The  plan  of  it  was 
simply  to  amuse.  It  was  to  string  together 
whimsical  sketches  of  the  pencil  by  entertaining 
sketches  of  the  pen ; and,  at  its  beginning, 
where  or  how  it  was  to  end  was  as  little  known 
to  himself  as  to  any  of  its  readers.  But  genius 
is  a master  as  well  as  a servant,  and  when  the 
laughter  and  fun  were  at  their  highest  something 
graver  made  its  appearance.  He  had  to  defend 
himself  for  this ; and  he  said  that  though  the 
mere  oddity  of  a new  acquaintance  was  apt  to 
impress  one  at  first,  the  more  serious  qualities 
were  discovered  when  we  became  friends  with 
the  man.  In  other  words  he  might  have  said 
that  the  change  was  become  necessary  for  his 
own  satisfaction.  The  book  itself,  in  teaching 
him  what  his  power  was,  had  made  him  more 
conscious  of  what  would  be  expected  from  its 
use  ; and  this  never  afterwards  quitted  him.  In 
what  he  was  to  do  hereafter,  as  in  all  he  was 


34 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


doing  now,  with  Pickwick  still  to  finish  and 
Oliver  only  beginning,  it  constantly  attended 
him.  Nor  could  it  well  be  otherwise,  with  all 
those  fanciful  creations  so  real,  to  a nature  in 
itself  so  practical  and  earnest ; and  in  this  spirit 
I had  well  understood  the  letter  accompanying 
what  had  been  published  of  Oliver  since  its 
commencement  the  preceding  February,  which 
reached  me  the  day  after  I visited  him.  Some- 
thing to  the  effect  of  what  has  just  been  said,  I 
had  remarked  publicly  of  the  portion  of  the  story 
sent  to  me;  and  his  instant  warm-hearted  ac- 
knowledgment of  which  I permit  myself  to  quote 
a line  or  two,  showed  me  in  what  perfect  agree- 
ment we  were.  “ How  can  I thank  you  ? Can 
I do  better  than  by  saying  that  the  sense  of  poor 
Oliver’s  reality,  which  I know  you  have  had 
from  the  first,  has  been  the  highest  of  all  praise 
to  me.  None  that  has  been  lavished  upon  me 
have  I felt  half  so  much  as  that  appreciation  of 
my  intent  and  meaning.  You  know  I have  ever 
done  so,  for  it  was  your  feeling  for  me  and  mine 
for  you  that  first  brought  us  together,  and  I 
hope  will  keep  us  so,  till  death  do  us  part. 
Your  notices  make  me  grateful  but  very  proud; 
so  have  a care  of  them.” 

There  was  nothing  written  by  him  after  this 
date  which  I did  not  see  before  the  world  did, 
either  in  manuscript  or  proofs ; and  in  connec- 
tion with  the  latter  I shortly  began  to  give  him 
the  help  which  he  publicly  mentioned  twenty 
years  later  in  dedicating  his  collected  writings  to 
me.  One  of  his  letters  reminds  me  when  these 
corrections  began,  and  they  were  continued  very 
nearly  to  the  last.  They  lightened  for  himalabour 
of  which  he  had  more  than  enough  imposed  upon 
him  at  this  time  by  others,  and  they  were  never 
anything  but  an  enjoyment  to  me.  “ I have,” 
he  wrote,  “ so  many  sheets  of  the  Miscellany  to 
correct  before  I can  begin  Oliver,  that  I fear  I 
shall  not  be  able  to  leave  home  this  morning. 
I therefore  send  your  revise  of  the  Pickwick  by 
Fred,  who  is  on  his  way  with  it  to  the  printers. 
You  will  see  that  my  alterations  are  very  slight, 
but  I think  for  the  better.”  This  was  the  four- 
teenth number  of  the  Pickwick  Papers.  Fred 
was  his  next  younger  brother,  who  lived  with 
him  at  the  time. 

The  number  following  this  was  the  famous 
one  in  which  tire  hero  finds  himself  in  the  Fleet, 
and  another  of  his  letters  will  show  what  enjoy- 
ment the  writing  of  it  had  given  to  himself.  I 
had  sent  to  ask  him  where  we  were  to  meet  for 
a proposed  ride  that  day.  “ Here,”  was  his 
reply.  “ I am  slippered  and  jacketted,  and, 
like  that  same  starting  who  is  so  very  seldom 
quoted,  can’t  get  out.  1 am  getting  on,  thank 


Heaven,  ‘ like  a house  o’  fire,’  and  think  the  next  - 
Pickwick  will  bang  all  the  others.  I shall  expect 
you  at  one,  and  we  will  walk  to  the  stable  to- 
gether. If  you  know  anybody  at  Saint  Paul’s,  I 
wish  you’d  send  round  and  ask  them  not  to  ring 
the  bell  so.  I can  hardly  hear  my  own  ideas  as 
they  come  into  my  head,  and  say  what  they 
mean.” 

The  exulting  tone  of  confidence  in  what  he 
had  thus  been  writing  rvas  indeed  well  justified. 
He  had  as  yet  done  nothing  so  remarkable,  in 
blending  humour  with  tragedy,  as  his  picture  of 
what  the  poor  side  of  a debtors’  prison  was  in 
the  days  of  which  we  have  seen  that  he  had 
himself  had  bitter  experience ; and  we  have  but 
to  recall,  as  it  rises  sharply  to  the  memory,  what 
is  contained  in  this  portion  of  a work  that  was 
not  only  among  his  earliest  but  his  least  con- 
sidered as  to  plan,  to  understand  what  it  was 
that  not  alone  had  given  him  his  fame  so  early, 
but  which  in  itself  held  the  germ  of  the  future 
that  awaited  him.  Every  point  was  a telling 
one,  and  the  truthfulness  of  the  whole  unerring. 
The  dreadful  restlessness  of  the  place,  undefined 
yet  unceasing,  unsatisfying  and  terrible,  was  pic- 
tured throughout  with  De  Foe’s  minute  reality;  — 
while  points  of  character  were  handled  in  that 
greater  style  which  connects  with  the  richest 
oddities  of  humour  an  insight  into  principles  of 
character  universal  as  nature  itself.  When  he 
resolved  that  Sam  Weller  should  be  occupant  of 
the  prison  with  Mr.  Pickwick,  he  was  perhaps 
thinking  of  his  favourite  Smollett,  and  how,  when 
Peregrine  Pickle  was  inmate  of  the  Fleet,  Hatch- 
way and  Pipes  refused  to  leave  him  ; but  Field- 
ing himself  might  have  envied  his  way  of  setting 
about  it.  Nor  is  any  portion  of  his  picture  less 
admirable  than  this.  The  comedy  gradually 
deepening  into  tragedy ; the  shabby  vagabonds 
who  are  the  growth  of  debtors’  prisons,  con- 
trasting with  the  poor  simple  creatures  who  are 
their  sacrifices  and  victims;  Mr.  Mivins  and 
Mr.  Smangle  side  by  side  with  the  cobbler 
ruined  by  his  legacy,  who  sleeps  under  the  table 
to  remind  himself  of  his  old  four-poster;  Mr. 
Pickwick’s  first  night  in  the  marshal’s  room,  Sam 
Weller  entertaining  Stiggins  in  the  snuggery. 
Jingle  in  decline,  and  the  Chancery  prisoner 
dying ; in  all  these  scenes  there  was  writing  of  | 
the  first  order,  a deep  feeling  of  character,  tliat  j 
delicate  form  of  humour  which  has  a cpiaintly  ^ 
j)athctic  turn  in  it  as  well,  comedy  of  the  richest  : 
and  broadest  kind,  and  the  easy  handling 
lliroughout  of  a master  in  his  art.  We  ])laco  the 
picture  by  the  side  of  those  of  the  great  writers  | 
of  this  style  of  fiction  in  our  language,  and  it 
does  not  fall  by  the  comparison. 


WRITING  THE  PICKWICK  PAPERS. 


35 


Of  what  the  reception  of  the  book  had  been 
up  to  this  time,  and  of  the  popularity  Dickens 
had  won  as  its  author,  this  also  will  be  the  proper 
place  to  speak.  For  its  kind,  its  extent,  and  the 
absence  of  everything  unreal  or  factitious  in  the 
causes  that  contributed  to  it,  it  is  unexampled 
in  literature.  Here  was  a series  of  sketches, 
without  the  pretence  to  such  interest  as  attends 
a well-constructed  story;  put  forth  in  a form 
apparently  eidremeral  as  its  purpose ; having 
none  that  seemed  higher  than  to  exhibit  some 
studies  of  cockney  manners  with  help  from  a 
comic  artist ; and  after  four  or  five  parts  had 
appeared,  without  newspaper  notice  or  puffing, 
and  itself  not  subserving  in  the  public  anything 
false  or  unworthy,  it  sprang  into  a popularity 
that  each  part  carried  higher  and  higher,  until 
people  at  this  time  talked  of  nothing  else,  trades- 
men recommended  their  goods  by  using  its 
name,  and  its  sale,  outstripping  at  a bound  that 
of  all  the  most  famous  books  of  the  century,  had 
reached  to  an  almost  fabulous  number.  Of  part 
one,  the  binder  prepared  four  hundred ; and  of 
part  fifteen,  his  order  was  for  more  than  forty 
thousand.  Every  class,  the  high  equally  with 
■ the  low,  were  attracted  to  it.  The  charm  of  its 
gaiety  and  good  humour,  its  inexhaustible  fun, 
its  riotous  overflow  of  animal  spirits,  its  bright- 
ness and  keenness  of  observation,  and  above  all, 
the  incomparable  ease  of  its  many  varieties  of 
enjoyment,  fascinated  everybody.  Judges  on 
the  bench  and  boys  in  the  street,  gravity  and 
folly,  the  young  and  the  old,  those  who  were 
entering  life  and  those  who  were  quitting  it,, 
alike  found  it  to  be  irresistible.  “ An  arch-  | 
deacon,”  wrote  Mr.  Carlyle  afterwards  to  me, 

“ with  his  own  venerable  lips  repeated  to  me, 
the  other  night,  a strange  profane  story : of  a 
solemn  clergyman  who  had  been  administering 
ghostly  consolation  to  a sick  person ; having 
finished,  satisfactorily  as  he  thought,  and  got  out 
of  the  room,  he  heard  the  sick  person  ejaculate  : 
‘Well,  thank  God,  Pickwick  will  be  out  in  ten  | 
days  any  way ! ’ — This  is  dreadful.” 

Let  me  add  that  there  was  something  more  in 
it  all  than  the  gratification  of  mere  fun  and 
laughter,  or  even  than  the  rarer  pleasure  that 
underlies  the  outbreak  of  all  forms  of  genuine 
humour.  Another  chord  had  been  struck.  Over 
and  above  the  lively  painting  of  manners  which 
at  first  had  been  so  attractive,  there  was  some- 
thing that  left  deeper  mark.  Genial  and  irre- 
pressible enjoyment,  affectionate  heartiness  of 
tone,  unrestrained  exuberance  of  mirth,  these  are 
not  more  delightful  than  they  are  fleeting  and 
perishable  qualities;  but  the  attention  eagerly 
excited  by  the  charm  of  them  in  Pickwick,  found 


itself  retained  by  something  more  permanent. 
We  had  all  become  suddenly  conscious,  in  the 
very  thick  of  the  extravaganza  of  adventure  and 
fun  set  before  us,  that  here  were  real  people. 
It  was  not  somebody  talking  humorously  about 
them,  but  they  were  there  themselves.  That  a 
number  of  persons  belonging  to  the  middle  and 
lower  ranks  of  life  (Wardles,  Winkles,  Wellers, 
Tupmans,  Bardells,  Snubbinses,  Perkers,  Bob 
Sawyers,  Dodsons  and  Foggs,)  had  been  some- 
how added  to  his  intimate  and  familiar  acquaint- 
ance, the  ordinary  reader  knew  before  half  a 
dozen  numbers  were  out ; and  it  took  not  many 
more  to  make  clear  to  the  intelligent  reader, 
that  a new  and  original  genius  in  the  walk  of 
Smollett  and  Fielding  had  arisen  in  England. 

I do  not,  for  reasons  to  be  hereafter  stated, 
think  the  Pickwick  Papers  comparable  to  the 
later  books;  but,  apart  from  the  new  vein  of 
humour  it  opened,  its  wonderful  freshness  and 
its  unflagging  animal  spirits,  it  has  two  charac- 
ters that  will  probably  continue  to  attract  to  it 
an  unfading  popularity.  Its  pre-eminent  achieve- 
ment is  of  course  Sam  Weller;  one  of  those 
people  that  take  their  place  among  the  supreme 
successes  of  fiction,  as  one  that  nobody  ever 
saw  but  everybody  recognizes,  at  once  perfectly 
natural  and  intensely  original.  Who  is  there 
that  has  ever  thought  him  tedious  ? Who  is  so 
familiar  with  him  as  not  still  to  be  finding  some- 
thing new  in  him  ? Who  is  so  amazed  by  his 
inexhaustible  resources,  or  so  amused  by  his 
inextinguishable  laughter,  as  to  doubt  of  his 
being  as  ordinary  and  perfect  a reality,  never- 
theless, as  anything  in  the  London  streets? 
When  indeed  the  relish  has  been  dulled  that 
makes  such  humour  natural  and  appreciable,  and 
not  his  native  fun  only,  his  ready  and  rich  illus- 
tration, his  imperturbable  self-possession,  but  his 
devotion  to  his  master,  his  chivalry  and  his 
gallantry,  are  no  longer  discovered,  or  believed 
no  longer  to  exist,  in  the  ranks  of  life  to  which 
he  belongs,  it  will  be  worse  for  all  of  us  than  for 
the  fame  of  his  creator.  Nor,  when  faith  is  lost 
in  that  possible  combination  of  eccentricities 
and  benevolences,  shrewdness  and  simplicity, 
good  sense  and  folly,  all  that  suggests  the  ludi- 
crous and  nothing  that  suggests  contempt  for  it, 
which  form  the  delightful  oddity  of  Pickwick, 
will  the  mistake  committed  be  one  merely  of 
critical  misjudgment.  But  of  this  there  is  small 
fear.  Sam  Weller  and  Mr.  Pickwick  are  the 
Sancho  and  the  Quixote  of  Londoners,  and  as 
little  likely  to  pass  away  as  the  old  city  itself. 

Dickens  was  very  fond  of  riding  in  these 
early  years,  and  there  was  no  recreation  he  so 
much  indulged,  or  with  such  profit  to  himself,  in 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


the  intervals  of  his  hardest  work.  I was  his 
companion  oftener  than  I could  well  afford  the 
time  for,  the  distances  being  great  and  nothing 
else  to  be  done  for  the  day  ; but  when  a note 
would  unexpectedly  arrive  while  I knew  him  to 
be  hunted  hard  by  one  of  his  printers,  telling 
me  he  had  been  sticking  to  work  so  closely  that 
be  must  have  rest,  and,  by  way  of  getting  it, 
proposing  we  should  start  together  that  morning 
at  eleven  o’clock  for  “ a fifteen  mile  ride  out, 
ditto  in,  and  a lunch  on  the  road,”  with  a wind- 
up of  six  o’clock  dinner  in  Doughty-street,  I 
could  not  resist  the  good  fellowship.  His  no- 
tion of  finding  rest  from  mental  exertion  in  as 
much  bodily  exertion  of  equal  severity,  con- 
tinued with  him  to  the  last ; taking  in  the  later 
years  what  I always  thought  the  too  great  strain 
of  as  many  miles  in  walking  as  he  now  took  in 
the  saddle,  and  too  often  indulging  it  at  night : 
for,  though  he  was  always  passionately  fond  of 
walking,  he  observed  as  yet  a moderation  in  it, 
even  accepting  as  sufficient  my  seven  or  eight 
miles  companionship.  “ What  a brilliant  morn- 
ing for  a country  walk  ! ” he  would  write,  with 
not  another  word  in  his  dispatch.  Or,  “Is  it 
possible  that  you  can’t,  oughtn’t,  shouldn’t, 
mustn’t,  won't  be  tempted,  this  gorgeous  day  ! ” 
Or,  “ I start  precisely — precisely  mind — at  half- 
past one.  Come,  come,  come,  and  walk  in  the 
green  lanes.  You  will  work  the  better  for  it  all 
the  week.  Come  ! I shall  expect  you.”  Or, 
“You  don’t  feel  disposed,  do  you,  to  muffle 
yourself  up,  and  start  off  with  me  for  a good 
brisk  walk  over  Hampstead-heath  ? I knows  a 
good  ’ous  there  where  we  can  have  a red-hot 
chop  for  dinner,  and  a glass  of  good  wine ; ” 
which  led  to  our  first  experience  of  Jack  Straw’s- 
castle,  memorable  for  many  happy  meetings  in 
coming  years.  But  the  rides  were  most  popular 
and  frequent.  “ I think,”  he  would  write, 
“ Richmond  and  Twickenham,  thro’  the  park, 
out  at  Knightsbridge,  and  over  Barnes-common 
would  make  a beautiful  ride.”  Or,  “ Do  you 
know,  I shouldn’t  object  to  an  early  chop  at 
some  village  inn?”  Or,  “Not  knowing  whether 
my  head  was  off  or  on,  it  became  so  addled 
with  work,  I have  gone  riding  the  old  road,  and 
should  be  truly  delighted  to  meet  or  be  over- 
taken by  you.”  Or,  “ Where  shall  it  be — 
oh  where — Hampstead,  Greenwicli,  Windsor? 
WHERE  ??????  while  the  day  is  bright,  not 
when  it  has  dwindled  away  to  nothing ! For 
who  can  be  of  any  use  whatsomdever  such  a 
day  as  this,  excepting  out  of  doors?”  Or  it 
might  be  interrogatory  summons  to  “ A hard 
trot  of  three  hours?”  or  intimation  as  laconic 
“To  be  heard  of  at  Kel-])ic-house,  Twicken- 


ham ! ” When  first  I knew  him,  I may  add,  his 
carriage  for  his  wife’s  use  was  a small  chaise 
with  a smaller  pair  of  ponies,  which,  having  a 
habit  of  making  sudden  rushes  up  bye-streets  in 
the  day  and  peremptory  standstills  in  ditches 
by  night,  were  changed  in  the  following  year  for 
a more  suitable  equipage. 

To  this  mention  of  his  habits  while  at  work 
when  our  friendship  began,  I have  to  add  what 
will  complete  the  relation  already  given,  in  con- 
nection with  his  Sketches,  of  the  uneasy  sense 
accompanying  his  labour  that  it  was  yielding 
insufficient  for  himself  while  it  enriched  others, 
which  is  a needful  part  of  his  story  at  this  tiipe. 
At  midsummer  1837,  replying  to  some  inquiries, 
and  sending  his  agreement  with  Mr.  Bentley  for 
the  Miscellany  under  which  he  was  writing 
Oliver,  he  went  on  : “ It  is  a very  extraordinary 
fact  (I  forgot  it  on  Sunday)  that  I have  never 
HAD  from  him  a copy  of  the  agreement  respect- 
ing the  novel,  which  I never  saw  before  or  since 
I signed  it  at  his  house  one  morning  long  ago. 
Shall  I ask  him  for  a copy  or  no  ? I have 
looked  at  some  memoranda  I made  at  the  time, 
and  I fear  he  has  my  second  novel  on  the  same 
terms,  under  the  same  agreement.  This  is  a 
bad  look-out,  but  we  must  try  and  mend  it. 
You  will  tell  me  you  are  very  much  surprised  at 
my  doing  business  in  this  way.  So  am  I,  for  in 
most  matters  of  labour  and  application  I am 
punctuality  itself.  The  truth  is  (though  you  do 
not  need  I should  explain  the  matter  to  you, 
my  dear  fellow)  that  if  I had  allowed  myself  to 
be  worried  by  these  things,  I could  never  have 
done  as  much  as  I have.  But  I much  fear,  in 
my  desire  to  avoid  present  vexations,  I have 
laid  up  a bitter  store  for  the  future.”  The 
second  novel,  which  he  had  promised  in  a com- 
plete form  for  a very  early  date,  and  had  already 
selected  subject  and  title  for,  was  published 
four  years  later  as  Barnaby  Fudge ; but  of  the 
third  he  at  present  knew  nothing  but  that  he 
was  expected  to  begin  it,  if  not  in  the  magazine, 
somewhere  or  other  independently  witiiin  a 
specified  time. 

The  first  appeal  made,  in  taking  action  upon 
his  letter,  had  reference  to  the  immediate  pres- 
sure of  tiie  Barnaby  novel ; but  it  also  opened 
up  the  question  of  the  great  change  of  circum- 
stances since  these  various  agreements  had  been 
precipitately  signed  by  him,  the  very  different 
situation  brought  about  by  the  extraordinary 
increase  in  the  popularity  of  his  writings,  and 
the  advantage  it  would  be,  to  both  Mr.  Bentley 
and  himself,  to  make  more  equitable  adjustment 
of  their  relations.  Some  misunderstandings 
followed,  but  were  closed  by  a compromise  in 


WRITING  THE  PICKWICK  PAPERS. 


September  1837  ; by  which  the  third  novel 
was  abamloned  * on  certain  conditions,  and 
Barnaby  was  undertaken  to  be  finished  by  No- 
vember 1838.  This  involved  a completion  of 
the  new  story  during  the  progress  of  Oliver, 
whatever  might  be  required  to  follow  on  the 
close  of  Pickwick;  and  I doubted  its  wisdom. 
But  it  was  accepted  for  the  time. 

He  had  meanwhile  taken  his  wife  abroad  for 
a ten  days’  summer  holiday,  accompanied  by 
the  shrewd  observant  young  artist,  Mr.  Hablot 


short  petticoats  and  light  caps  look  uncommonly 
agreeable.  A gentleman  in  a blue  surtout  and 
silken  berlins  accompanied  us  from  the  hotel, 
and  acted  as  curator.  He  even  waltzed  with  a 
very  smart  lady  (just  to  show  us,  condescend- 
ingly, how  it  ought  to  be  done),  and  waltzed 

* I have  a memorandum  in  Dickens’s  writing  that 
5004  was  to  have  been  given  for  it,  and  an  additional 
250/.  on  its  sale  reaching  3000  copies  : but  he  had  no 
ground  of  objection  to  the  terms  that  accompanied  its 
surrender,  which  were  favourable. 

Life  of  Charles  Dickens,  4. 


37 


Browne,  whose  admirable  illustrations  to  Pick- 
wick had  more  than  supplied  Mr.  Seymour’s 
loss ; and  I had  a letter  from  him  on  their 
landing  at  Calais  on  the  2nd  of  July. 

“ We  have  arranged  for  a post-coach  to  take 
us  to  Ghent,  Brussels,  Antwerp,  and  a hundred 
other  places,  that  I cannot  recollect  now  and 
couldn’t  spell  if  I did.  We  went  this  afternoon 
in  a barouche  to  some  gardens  where  the  people 
dance,  and  where  they  were  footing  it  most 
heartily — especially  the  women,  who  in  their 


elegantly  too.  We  rang  for  slippers  after  we 
came  back,  and  it  turned  out  that  this  gentle- 
man was  the  Boots.” 

His  later  sea-side  holiday  was  passed  at 
Broadstairs,  as  were  those  of  many  subsequent 
years,  and  the  little  watering-place  has  been 
made  memorable  by  his  pleasant  sketch  of  it. 
From  his  letters  to  myself  a few  lines  may  be 
given  of  his  first  doings  and  impressions  there. 

Writing  on  the  3rd  of  September  he  reports 
himself  just  risen  from  an  attack  of  illness.  “ I 
412 


“JACK  STKAW’S-CASTLE,  MEMORABLE  FOR  MANY  HAPPY  MEETINGS  IN  COMING  YEARS.’’ 


38  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICICENS. 


am  much  better,  and  hope  to  begin  Pickwick 
No.  1 8 to-morrow.  You  will  imagine  how  queer 
I must  have  been  when  I tell  you  that  I have 
been  compelled  for  four-and-twenty  mortal  hours 
to  abstain  from  porter  or  other  malt  liquor  ! ! ! 
I done  it  though — really I have  dis- 

covered that  the  landlord  of  the  Albion  has 
delicious  hollands  (but  what  is  that  to  yon,  for 
you  cannot  sympathise  with  my  feelings),  and 
that  a cobbler  who  lives  opposite  to  my  bed- 
room window  is  a Roman-catholic,  and  gives  an 
hour  and  a half  to  his  devotions  every  morning 
behind  his  counter.  I have  walked  upon  the 
sands  at  low-water  from  this  place  to  Ramsgate, 
and  sat  upon  the  same  at  high-ditto  till  I have 
been  flayed  with  the  cold.  I have  seen  ladies 
and  gentlemen  walking  upon  the  earth  in  slip- 
pers of  buff,  and  pickling  themselves  in  the  sea 
in  complete  suits  of  the  same.  I have  seen  stout 
gentlemen  looking  at  nothing  through  powerful 
telescopes  for  hours,  and,  when  at  last  they  saw 
a cloud  of  smoke,  fancying  a steamer  behind  it, 
and  going  home  comfortable  and  happy.  I 
have  found  out  that  our  ne.\t  neighbour  has  a 
wife  and  something  else  under  the  same  roof 
with  the  rest  of  his  furniture — the  wife  deaf  and 
blind,  and  the  something  else  given  to  drinking. 
And  if  you  ever  get  to  the  end  of  this  letter  you 
will  find  out  that  I subscribe  myself  on  paper  as 
on  everything  else  (some  atonement  perhaps  for 
its  length  and  absurdity),”  &c.  «&c. 

In  his  ne^it  letter  (from  12,  High-street, 
Broadstairs,  on  the  7 th)  there  is  allusion  to  one 
of  the  many  piracies  of  Pickwick,  which  had  dis- 
tinguished itself  beyond  the  rest  by  a preface 
abusive  of  the  writer  plundered.  “ I recollect 
this  ‘ member  of  the  dramatic-authors’-society  ’ 
bringing  an  action  once  against  Chapman  who 
rented  the  City-theatre,  in  which  it  was  proved 
that  he  had  undertaken  to  write  under  special 
agreement  seven  melodramas  for  five  pounds, 
to  enable  him  to  do  which  a room  had  been 
hired  in  a gin-shop  close  by.  The  defendant’s 
plea  was,  that  the  plaintiff  was  always  drunk, 
and  had  not  fulfilled  his  contract.  Well ; if  the 
Pickwick  has  been  the  means  of  putting  a few 
shillings  in  the  vermin-eaten  pockets  of  so  mise- 
rable a creature,  and  has  saved  him  from  a 
workhouse  or  jail,  let  him  empty  out  his  little 
pot  of  filth  and  welcome.  I am  ([uite  content 
to  have  been  the  means  of  relieving  him.  Be- 
sides, he  seems  to  have  suffered  by  agree- 
ments ! ” 

His  own  troubles  in  that  way  were  compro- 
mised for  the  time,  as  already  hinted,  at  the 
close  of  this  September  month  ; and  at  the  end 
of  the  month  following,  after  finishing  Pickwick 


and  resuming’  Oliver,  the  latter  having  been  sus- 
pended by  him  during  the  recent  disputes,  he 
made  his  first  visit  to  Brighton.  The  opening 
of  his  letter  of  Friday  the  3rd  of  November  is 
full  of  friendly  regrets  that  I had  not  joined 
them  there.  “ It  is  a beautiful  day  and  we  have 
been  taking  advantage  of  it,  but  the  wind  until 
to-day  has  been  so  high  and  the  weather  so 
stormy  that  Kate  has  been  scarcely  able  to  peep 
out  of  doors.  On  Wednesday  it  blew  a perfect 
hurricane,  breaking  windows,  knocking  down 
shutters,  carrying  people  off  their  legs,  blowing 
the  fires  out,  and  causing  universal  consterna- 
tion. The  air  was  for  some  hours  darkened 
with  a shower  of  black  hats  (second-hand)  which 
are  supposed  to  have  been  blown  off  the  heads 
of  unwary  passengers  in  remote  parts  of  the 
town,  and  have  been  industriously  picked  up  by 
the  fishermen.  Charles  Kean  was  advertised 
for  Othello,  ‘ for  the  benefit  of  Mrs.  Sefton,  hav- 
ing most  kindly  postponed  for  this  one  day  his 
departure  for  London.’  I have  not  heard 
whether  he  got  to  the  theatre,  but  I am  sure 
nobody  else  did.  They  do  The  Honeymoo)i  to- 
night, on  which  occasion  I mean  to  patronize 
the  drayma.  We  have  a beautiful  bay-win- 
dowed sitting-room  here,  fronting  the  sea,  but  I 
have  seen  nothing  of  B’s  brother  who  was  to 
have  shown  me  the  lions,  and  my  notions  of 
the  place  are  consequently  somewhat  confined  : 
being  limited  to  the  pavilion,  the  chain-pier,  and 
the  sea.  The  last  is  quite  enough  for  me,  and, 
unless  I am  joined  by  some  male  companion 
{do  you  think  1 shall  he  ?),  is  most  probably  all  I 
shall  make  acquaintance  with.  I am  glad  you 
like  Oliver  this  month  : especially  glad  that  you 
particularize  the  first  chapter.  I hope  to  do 
great  things  with  Nancy.  If  I can  only  work 
out  the  idea  I have  formed  of  her,  and  of  the 
female  who  is  to  contrast  with  her,  I think  I 

may  defy  Mr. and  all  his  works.  I have 

had  great  difficulty  in  keeping  my  hands  off 
Fagin  and  the  rest  of  them  in  the  evenings  ; but 
as  I came  down  for  rest,  I have  resisted  the 
temptation,  and  steadily  applied  myself  to  the 
labour  of  being  idle.  Did  you  ever  read  (of 
course  you  have  though)  Defoe’s  History  of  the 
Devil  1 What  a capital  thing  it  is!  1 bought 
it  for  a couple  of  shillings  yesterday  morning, 
and  have  been  quite  absorbed  in  it  ever  since. 
We  must  have  been  jolter-headed  geniuses  not 
to  have  anticipated  M’s  reply.  My  best  remem- 
brances to  him.  I see  11  at  this  moment.  I must 
be  present  at  a rehearsal  of  that  opera.  It  will 
be  better  than  any  comedy  that  was  ever  played. 
Talking  of  comedies,  I still  see  No  Tiiokougu- 
FARE  staring  me  in  the  face,  every  time  1 look 


BETWEEN  PICKWICK  AND  NICKLEBY. 


39 


down  that  road.  I have  taken  places  for  Tues- 
day next.  AVe  shall  be  at  home  at  six  o’clock, 
and  I shall  hope  at  least  to  see  you  that  even- 
ing. 1 am  afraid  you  will  find  this  letter  ex- 
tremely dear  at  eightpence,  but  if  the  warmest 
assurances  of  friendship  and  attachment,  and 
anxious  lookings-forward  to  the  pleasure  of  your 
society,  be  worth  anything,  throw  them  into  the 
balance,  together  with  a hundred  good  wishes 
and  one  hearty  assurance  that  I am,”  &c.  &c. 
“ Ch.-vrles  Dickens.  No  room  for  the  flourish 
— I’ll  finish  it  the  next  time  I write  to  you.” 

The  flourish  that  accompanied  his  signature 
is  familiar  to  every  one.  The  allusion  to  the 
comedy  expresses  a fancy  he  at  this  time  had  of 
being  able  to  contribute  some  such  achievement 
in  aid  of  Macready’s  gallant  efforts  at  Covent- 
garden  to  bring  back  to  the  stage  its  higher 
associations  of  good  literature  and  intellectual 
enjoyment.  It  connects  curiously  now  that 
unrealised  hope  with  the  exact  title  of  the  only 
story  he  ever  took  part  himself  in  dramatizing, 
and  which  Mr.  Fechter  played  at  the  Adelphi 
three  years  before  his  death. 


II. 

BETWEEN  PICKWICK  AND  NICKLEBY. 
1837  AND  1838. 

^OT  remotely  bearing  on  the  stage, 
nevertheless,  was  the  employment 
on  which  I found  him  busy  at  his 
return  from  Brighton  ; one  result  of 
his  more  satisfactory  relations  with 
Mr.  Bentley  having  led  to  a promise  to 
edit  for  liim  a life  of  the  celebrated 
clown,  Grimaldi.  The  manuscript  had 
been  prepared  from  autobiographical  notes  by  a 
Mr.  Egerton  AVilks,  and  contained  one  or  two 
stories  told  so  badly,  and  so  well  worth  better 
telling,  that  the  hope  of  enlivening  their  dulness 
at  the  cost  of  very  little  labour  constituted  a 
sort  of  attraction  for  him.  Except  the  preface 
he  did  not  write  a line  of  this  biography,  such 
modifications  or  additions  as  he  made  having 
been  dictated  by  him  to  his  father ; whom  I 
found  often  in  exalted  enjoyment  of  the  office 
of  amanuensis.  He  had  also  a most  indifferent 
opinion  of  the  mass  of  material  which  Mr.  AAhlks 
had  raked  together,  describing  it  as  “twaddle;” 
and  his  own  modest  estimate  of  the  book,  on  its 
completion,  may  be  guessed  from  the  number  of 
notes  of  admiration  (no  less  than  thirty)  which 
accompanied  his  written  mention  to  me  of  the 


sale  with  which  it  started  iff  the  first  week  of  its 
publication.  “Seventeen  hundred  Grimaldis \\awc 
been  already  sold,  and  the  demand  increases 
daily !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” 
It  was  not  to  have  all  its  own  way  however. 
A great  many  critical  faults  were  found ; and 
one  point  in  particular  was  urged  against  his 
handling  such  a subject,  that  he  could  never 
himself  even  have  seen  Grimaldi.  To  this  last 
objection  he  was  moved  to  reply,  and  had  pre- 
pared a letter  for  the  Miscellany,  “ from  editor 
to  sub-editor,”  which  it  was  thought  best  to  sup- 
press, but  of  which  the  opening  remark  may 
now  be  not  unamusing.  “ I understand  that  a 
gentleman  unknown  is  going  about  this  town 
privately  informing  all  ladies  and  gentlemen  of 
discontented  natures,  that,  on  a comparison  of 
dates  and  putting  together  of  many  little  circum- 
stances which  occur  to  his  great  sagacity,  he  has 
made  the  profound  discovery  that  I can  never 
have  seen  Grimaldi  whose  life  I have  edited, 
and  that  the  book  must  therefore  of  necessity 
be  bad.  Now,  sir,  although  I was  brought  up 
from  remote  country  parts  in  the  dark  ages  of 
1819  and  1820  to  behold  the  splendour  of 
Christmas  pantomimes  and  the  humour  of  Joe, 
in  whose  honour  I am  informed  I clapped  my 
hands  with  great  precocity,  and  although  I even 
saw  him  act  in  the  remote  times  of  1823  ; yet  as 
I had  not  then  aspired  to  the  dignity  of  a tail- 
coat, though  forced  by  a relentless  parent  into 
my  first  pair  of  boots,  I am  willing,  with  the 
view  of  saving  this  honest  gentleman  further 
time  and  trouble,  to  concede  that  I had  not 
arrived  at  man’s  estate  when  Grimaldi  left  the 
stage,  and  that  my  recollections  of  his  acting 
are,  to  my  loss,  but  shadowy  and  imperfect. 
Which  confession  I now  make  publickly,  and 
without  mental  qualification  or  reserve,  to  all 
whom  it  may  concern.  But  the  deduction  of 
this  pleasant  gentleman  that  therefore  the  Gri- 
maldi book  must  be  bad,  I must  take  leave  to 
doubt.  I don’t  think  that  to  edit  a man’s 
biography  from  his  own  notes  it  is  essential  you 
should  have  known  him,  and  I don’t  believe 
that  Lord  Braybrooke  had  more  than  the  very 
slightest  acquaintance  with  Mr.  Pepys  whose 
memoirs  he  edited  two  centuries  after  he  died.” 
Enormous  meanwhile,  and  without  objection 
audible  on  any  side,  had  been  the  success  of  the 
completed  Pickwick,  which  we  celebrated  by  a 
dinner,  with  himself  in  the  chair  and  Talfourd 
in  the  vice-chair,  everybody  in  hearty  good 
humour  with  every  other  body ; and  a copy  of 
which  I received  from  him  on  the  nth  of  De- 
cember in  the  most  luxurious  of  Hayday’s  bind- 
ings, with  a note  worth  preserving  for  its  closing 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


40 


allusion.  The  passige  referred  to  in  it  was  a 
comment,  in  delicately  chosen  words,  that  Leigh 
Hunt  had  made  on  the  inscription  at  the  grave 
in  Kensal-green.''"  “ Chapman  and  Hall  have 
just  sent  me,  with  a copy  of  our  deed,  three 
‘ extra-super  ’ bound  copies  of  Fichaick,  as  per 
specimen  inclosed.  The  first  I forward  to  you, 
the  second  I have  presented  to  our  good  friend 
Ainsworth,  and  the  third  Kate  has  retained  for 
herself.  Accept  your  copy  with  one  sincere  and 
most  comprehensive  expression  of  my  warmest 
friendship  and  esteem  ; and  a hearty  renewal,  if 
there  need  be  any  renewal  when  there  has  been 
no  interruption,  of  all  those  assurances  of  affec- 
tionate regard  which  our  close  friendship  and 
communion  for  a long  time  back  has  every  day 

implied That  beautiful  passage  you  were 

so  kind  and  considerate  as  to  send  me,  has  given 
me  the  only  feeling  akin  to  pleasure  (sorrowful 
pleasure  it  is)  that  I have  yet  had,  connected 
with  the  loss  of  my  dear  young  friend  and  com- 
panion ; for  whom  my  love  and  attachment  will 
never  diminish,  and  by  whose  side,  if  it  please 
God  to  leave  me  in  possession  of  sense  to  signify 
my  wishes,  my  bones,  whenever  or  wherever  I 
die,  will  one  day  be  laid.  Tell  Leigh  Hunt 
when  you  have  an  opportunity  how  much  he  has 
affected  me,  and  how  deeply  I thank  him  for 
what  he  has  done.  You  cannot  say  it  too 
strongly.” 

The  “ deed  ” mentioned  was  one  executed  in 
the  previous  month  to  restore  to  him  a third 
ownership  in  the  book  which  had  thus  far  en- 
riched all  concerned  but  himself.  The  original 
understanding  respecting  it  Mr.  Edwin  Chap- 
man thus  describes  for  me.  “There  was  no 
agreement  about  Pickwick  except  a verbal  one. 
Each  number  was  to  consist  of  a sheet  and  a 
half,  for  which  we  were  to  pay  fifteen  guineas; 
and  we  paid  him  for  the  first  two  numbers  at 
once,  as  he  required  the  money  to  go  and  get 
married  with.  We  were  also  to  pay  more  ac- 
cording to  the  sale,  and  I think  Pickwick  alto- 
gether cost  us  three  thousand  pounds.”  Adjust- 
ment to  the  sale  would  have  cost  four  times  as 
much,  and  of  the  actual  payments  I have  myself 
no  note  ; but  as  far  as  my  memory  serves,  they 
are  overstated  by  Mr.  Chapman.  My  impres- 
sion is,  that,  above  and  beyond  the  first  sum 
due  for  each  of  the  twenty  numbers  (making  no 
allowance  for  their  extension  after  the  first  to 
thirty-two  pages),  successive  cheques  were  given, 
as  the  work  went  steadily  on  to  the  enormous 
sale  it  reached,  which  brought  up  the  entire  sum 
received  to  two  thousand  five  hundred  pounds. 
I had  however  always  pressed  so  strongly  the 
* See  ante,  p.  32. 


importance  to  him  of  some  share  in  the  copy- 
right, that  this  at  last  was  conceded  in  the  deed 
above-mentioned,  though  five  years  were  to 
elapse  before  the  right  should  accrue ; and  it 
was  only  yielded  as  part  consideration  for  a fur- 
ther agreement  entered  into  at  the  same  date 
(the  19th  of  November,  1837)  whereby  Dickens 
engaged  to  “ write  a new  work  the  title  whereof 
shall  be  determined  by  him,  of  a similar  cha- 
racter and  of  the  same  extent  as  the  Posthumous 
Papers  of  the  Pickwick  Club,"  the  first  number 
of  which  was  to  be  delivered  on  the  fifteenth  of 
the  following  March,  and  each  of  the  numbers 
on  the  same  day  of  each  of  the  successive  nine- 
teen months  ; which  was  also  to  be  the  date  of 
the  payment  to  him,  by  Messrs.  Chapman  and 
Hall,  of  twenty  several  sums  of  one  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds  each  for  five  years’  use  of  the 
copyright,  the  entire  ownership  in  which  was 
then  to  revert  to  Dickens.  The  name  of  this 
new  book,  as  all  the  world  knows,  was  The  Life 
and  Adventures  of  Nicholas  Nicklcby ; and  be- 
tween April  1838  and  October  1839  it  was  begun 
and  finished  accordingly. 

All  through  the  interval  of  these  arrangements 
Oliver  Twist  had  been  steadily  continued. 
Month  by  month,  for  many  months,  it  had  run 
its  opening  course  with  the  close  of  Pickwick, 
as  we  shall  see  it  close  with  the  opening  of 
Nicklcby ; and  the  expectations  of  those  who  had 
built  most  confidently  on  the  young  novelist 
were  more  than  confirmed.  Here  was  the 
interest  of  a story  simply  but  well  constructed  ; 
and  characters  with  the  same  impress  of  reality 
upon  them,  but  more  carefully  and  skilfully 
drawn.  Nothing  could  be  meaner  than  the  sub- 
ject, the  progress  of  a parish  or  workhouse  boy, 
nothing  less  so  than  its  treatment.  As  each 
number  appeared,  his  readers  generally  became 
more  and  more  conscious  of  what  already,  as  we 
have  seen,  had  revealed  itself  amid  even  the 
riotous  fun  of  Pickwick,  that  the  purpose  was  not 
solely  to  amuse ; and  far  more  decisively  than  its 
predecessor,  the  new  story  further  showed  what 
were  not  the  least  potent  elements  in  the  still 
increasing  popularity  that  was  gathering  around 
the  writer.  His  (lualities  could  be  appreciated  as 
well  as  felt  in  an  almost  equal  degree  by  all 
classes  of  his  various  readers.  Thousands  were 
attracted  to  him  because  he  placed  them  in  the 
midst  of  scenes  and  characters  with  which  they 
were  already  themselves  acquainted  ; and  thou- 
sands were  reading  himwithno  lessavidity  because 
he  introduced  them  to  passages  of  nature  and 
life  of  which  they  before  knew  nothing,  but  ol 
the  truth  of  which  their  own  habits  and  senses 
sufficed  to  assure  them.  Only  to  genius  arc  so 


BEl'WEEN  PICKWICK  AND  NICKLEBY. 


revealed  the  aflinities  and  sympatliies  of  high 
and  low,  in  regard  to  the  customs  and  usages  of 
life;  and  only  a writer  of  the  first  rank  can  bear 
the  application  of  such  a test.  For  it  is  by  the 
alliance  of  common  habits,  quite  as  much  as  by 
the  bonds  of  a common  humanity,  that  we  are 
all  of  us  linked  together;  and  the  result  of  being 
above  the  necessity  of  depending  on  other 
people’s  opinions,  and  that  of  being  below  it, 
are  pretty  much  the  same.  It  would  equally 
startle  both  high  and  low  to  be  conscious  of  the 
whole  that  is  implied  in  this  close  approxima- 
tion ; but  for  the  common  enjoyment  of  which  I 
speak  such  consciousness  is  not  required  ; and 
for  the  present  Fagin  may  be  left  undisturbed 
in  his  school  of  practical  ethics  with  only  the 
Dodger,  Charley  Bates,  and  his  other  promising 
scholars. 

With  such  work  as  this  in  hand,  it  will  hardly 
seem  surprising  that  as  the  time  for  beginning 
Nickleby  came  on,  and  as  he  thought  of  his  pro- 
mise for  November,  he  should  have  the  sense  of 
something  hanging  over  him  like  a hideous 
'nightmare.”  He  felt  that  he  could  not  complete 
the  Barnaby  Pudge  novel  by  the  November  of 
that  year  as  promised,  and  that  the  engagement 
he  would  have  to  break  was  unfitting  him  for 
engagements  he  might  otherwise  fulfil.  He  had 
undertaken  what  in  truth  was  impossible.  The 
labour  of  at  once  editing  the  Miscellany  and 
supplying  it  with  monthly  portions  of  Oliver^ 
more  than  occupied  all  the  time  left  him  by  other 
labours  absolutely  necessary.  “ I no  sooner  get 
myself  up,”  he  wrote,  “high  and  dry,  to  attack 
Oliver  manfully,  than  up  come  the  waves  of  each 
month’s  work,  and  drive  me  back  again  into  a 
sea  of  manuscript.”  There  was  nothing  for  it 
but  that  he  should  make  farther  appeal  to  Mr. 
Bentley.  “ I have  recently,”  he  wrote  to  him  on 
the  iith  of  February,  1838,  “been  thinking  a 
great  deal  about  Barnaby  Pudge.  Grimaldi  has 
occupied  so  much  of  the  short  interval  I had 
between  the  completion  of  the  Pickwick  and  the 
commencement  of  the  new  work,  that  I see  it 
will  be  wholly  impossible  for  me  to  produce  it 
by  the  time  I had  hoped,  with  justice  to  myself 
or  profit  to  you.  What  I wish  you  to  consider 
is  this  ; w’ould  it  not  be  far  more  to  your  interest, 
as  well  as  within  the  scope  of  my  ability,  if 
Barnaby  Pudge  began  in  the  Miscellany  imme- 
diately on  the  conclusion  of  Oliver  Twist,  and 
were  continued  there  for  the  same  time,  and  then 
published  in  three  volumes  ? Take  these  simple 
facts  into  consideration.  If  the  Miscellany  is  to 
keep  its  ground,  it  must  have  some  continuous 
tale  from  me  when  Oliver  stops.  If  I sat  down 
to  Barnaby  Pudge,  writing  a little  of  it  when  I 


41 


could  (and  with  all  my  other  engagements  it 
would  necessarily  be  a very  long  time  before  I 
could  hope  to  finish  it  that  way),  it  would  be 
clearly  impossible  for  me  to  begin  a new  series 
of  papers  in  the  Miscellany.  The  conduct  of 
three  different  stories  at  the  same  time,  and  the 
production  of  a large  portion  of  each,  every 
month,  would  have  been  beyond  Scott  himself. 
Whereas,  having  Barnaby  for  the  Miscellany,  we 
could  at  once  supply  the  gap  which  the  cessa- 
tion of  Oliver  must  create,  and  you  would  have 
all  the  advantage  of  that  prestige  in  favour  of 
the  work  which  is  certain  to  enhance  the  value 
of  Oliver  Twist  considerably.  Just  think  of  this 
at  your  leisure.  I am  really  anxious  to  do  the 
best  I can  for  you  as  well  as  for  myself,  and  in 
this  case  the  pecuniary  advantage  must  be  all  on 
your  side.”  This  letter  nevertheless,  which  had 
also  requested  an  overdue  account  of  the  sales 
of  the  Miscellany,  led  to  differences  which  were 
only  adjusted  after  six  months’  wrangling ; and 
I was  party  to  the  understanding  then  arrived 
at,  by  which,  among  other  things,  Barnaby  was 
placed  upon  the  footing  desired,  and  was  to 
begin  when  Oliver  closed. 

Of  the  progress  of  his  Oliver,  and  his  habits 
of  writing  at  the  time,  it  may  perhaps  be  worth 
giving  some  additional  glimpses  from  his  letters 
of  1838.  “I  was  thinking  about  Oliver  till 
dinner-time  yesterday,”  he  wrote  on  the  9th  of 
March,  “ and,  just  as  I had  fallen  upon  him  tooth 
and  nail,  was  called  away  to  sit  with  Kate.  I 
did  eight  slips  however,  and  hope  to  make  them 
fifteen  this  morning.”  Three  days  before,  a 
daughter  had  been  born  to  him,  who  became  a 
god-daughter  to  me  ; on  which  occasion  (having 
closed  his  announcement  with  a postscript  of  “ I 
can  do  nothing  this  morning.  What  time  will 
you  ride  ? The  sooner  the  better  for  a good 
long  spell  ”),  we  rode  out  fifteen  miles  on  the 
great  north-road,  and,  after  dining  at  the  Red- 
lion  in  Barnet  on  our  way  home,  distinguished 
the  already  mem.orable  day  by  bringing  in  both 
hacks  dead  lame. 

On  that  day  week,  Monday  the  13th,  after 
describing  himself  “sitting  patiently  at  home 
waiting  for  Oliver  Twist  who  has  not  yet  ar- 
rived,” which  was  his  agreeable  form  of  saying 
that  his  fancy  had  fallen  into  sluggishness  that 
morning,  he  made  remark  in  as  pleasant  phrase 
on  some  piece  of  painful  news  I had  sent  him, 
now  forgotten.  “ I have  not  yet  seen  the  paper, 
and  you  throw  me  into  a fever.  The  comfort 
is  that  all  the  strange  and  terrible  things  come 
uppermost,  and  that  the  good  and  pleasant  things 
are  mixed  up  with  every  moment  of  our  existence 
so  plentifully  that  we  scarcely  heed  them.”  At 


42 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


the  close  of  the  month  Mrs.  Dickens  was  well 
enough  to  accompany  him  to  Richmond,  for 
now  the  time  was  come  to  start  Nickleby;  and 
having  been  away  from  town  when  Pickwick's 
first  number  came  out,  he  made  it  a superstition 
to  be  absent  at  many  future  similar  times.  The 
magazine-day  of  that  April  month,  I remember, 
fell  upon  a Saturday,  and  the  previous  evening 
■bad  brought  me  a peremptory  summons : “ Meet 
me  at  the  Shakespeare  on  Saturday  night  at 
eight ; order  your  horse  at  midnight,  and  ride 
back  with  me  which  was  duly  complied  with. 
The  smallest  hour  was  sounding  into  the  night 
from  St.  Paul’s  before  we  started,  and  the  night 
was  none  of  the  pleasantest ; but  we  carried 
news  that  lightened  every  part  of  the  road,  for 
the  sale  of  Nickleby  had  reached  that  day  the 
astonishing  number  of  nearly  fifty  thousand  ! I 
left  him  working  with  unusual  cheerfulness  at 
Oliver  Twist  when  I quitted  the  Star  and  Garter 
on  the  next  day  but  one,  after  celebrating  with 
both  friends  on  the  previous  evening  an  anni- 
versary which  concerned  us  all  (their  second 
and  my  twenty-sixth);  and  which  we  kept  always 
in  future  at  the  same  place,  except  when  they 
were  living  out  of  England,  for  twenty  succes- 
sive years.  It  was  a part  of  his  love  of  regularity 
and  order,  as  well  as  of  his  kindliness  of  nature, 
to  place  such  friendly  meetings  as  these  under 
rules  of  habit  and  continuance. 


III. 


OLIVER  TWIST. 


1838. 

HE  whole  of  his  time  not  occupied 
with  Nickleby  was  now  given  to 
Oliver,  and  as  the  story  shaped  it- 
self to  its  close  it  took  extraordinary 
hold  of  him.  I never  knew  him 
work  so  frequently  after  dinner,  or  to 
such  late  hours  (a  practice  he  afterwards 
abhorred),  as  during  the  final  months 
of  this  task  ; which  it  was  now  his  hope  to 
complete  before  October,  though  its  close  in 
the  magazine  would  not  be  due  until  the  follow- 
ing March.  “ I worked  pretty  well  last  night,” 
he  writes,  referring  to  it  in  May,  “ very  well 
indeed ; but  although  I did  eleven  close  slips 
before  half- past  twelve  I have  four  to  write  to 
close  the  chapter  ; and,  as  I foolishly  left  them 
till  this  morning,  have  the  steam  to  get  up 
afresh.”  A month  later  he  writes;  “I  got  to 
* See  ante,  p.  29. 


the  sixteenth  slip  last  night,  and  shall  try  hard 
to  get  to  the  thirtieth  before  I go  to  bed.” 
Then,  on  a “ Tuesday  night  ” at  the  opening  of 
August,  he  wrote  ; “ Hard  at  work  still.  Nancy 
is  no  more.  I showed  what  I have  done  to 
Kate  last  night,  who  was  in  an  unspeakable 
‘ state : ’ from  which  and  my  own  impression  I 
augur  well.  When  I have  sent  Sikes  to  the 
devil,  I must  have  yours.”  “No,  no,”  he  wrote, 
in  the  following  month  ; “ don’t,  don’t  let  us 
ride  till  to-morrow,  not  having  yet  disposed  of 
the  Jew,  who  is  such  an  out  and  outer  that  I 
don’t  know  what  to  make  of  him.”  No  small 
difficulty  to  an  inventor,  where  the  creatures  of 
his  invention  are  found  to  be  as  real  as  himself; 
but  this  also  was  mastered ; and  then  there  re- 
mained but  the  closing  quiet  chapter  to  tell  the 
fortunes  of  those  who  had  figured  in  the  tale. 
To  this  he  summoned  me  in  the  first  week  of 
September,  replying  to  a request  of  mine  that 
he’d  give  me  a call  that  day.  “ Come  and  give 
Me  a call,  and  let  us  have  ‘ a bit  o’  talk  ’ before 
we  have  a bit  o’  som’at  else.  My  missis  is  going 
out  to  dinner,  and  I ought  to  go,  but  I have 
got  a bad  cold.  So  do  you  come,  and  sit  here, 
and  read,  or  work,  or  do  something,  while  I 
write  the  last  chapter  of  Oliver,  which  will  be 
arter  a lamb  chop.”  How  well  I remember 
that  evening  ! and  our  talk  of  what  should  be 
the  fate  of  Charley  Bates,  on  behalf  of  whom 
(as  indeed  for  the  Dodger  too)  Talfourd  had 
pleaded  as  earnestly  in  mitigation  of  judgment 
as  ever  at  the  bar  for  any  client  he  most  re- 
spected. 

The  publication  had  been  announced  for 
October,  but  the  third-volume-illustrations  inter- 
cepted it  a little.  This  part  of  the  story,  as  we 
have  seen,  had  been  written  in  anticipation  of 
the  magazine,  and  the  designs  for  it,  having  to 
be  executed  “in  a lump,”  were  necessarily  done 
somewhat  hastily.  The  matter  supplied  in  ad- 
vance of  the  monthly  portions  in  the  magazine, 
formed  the  bulk  of  the  last  volume  as  published 
in  the  book ; and  for  this  the  plates  had  to  be 
prepared  by  Cruikshank  also  in  advance  of  the 
magazine,  to  furnish  them  in  time  for  the  sepa- 
rate publication  : Sikes  and  his  dog,  Fagin  in 
the  cell,  and  Rose  Maylie  and  Oliver,  being  the 
three  last.  None  of  those  Dickens  had  seen 
until  he  saw  them  in  the  book  on  the  eve  ot  its 
publication  ; when  he  so  strongly  objected  to 
one  of  them  that  it  had  to  be  cancelled.  “ I 
returned  suddenly  to  town  yesterday  afternoon,” 
he  wrote  to  the  artist  at  the  end  of  October,  “ to 
look  at  tlic  latter  pages  of  Oliver  Twist  before 
it  was  delivered  to  the  booksellers,  when  I saw 
the  majority  of  the  plates  in  the  last  volume  for 


OLIVER  TWIST. 


43 


the  first  time.  With  reference  to  the  last  one 
— Rose  Maylie  and  Oliver — without  entering 
into  the  question  of  great  haste,  or  any  other 
cause,  wliich  may  have  led  to  its  being  what  it 
is,  I am  quite  sure  there  can  be  little  difference 
of  opinion  between  us  with  respect  to  the  result. 
iMay  I ask  you  whether  you  will  object  to  de- 
signing this  plate  afresh,  and  doing  so  at  once, 
in  order  that  as  few  impressions  as  possible  of 
the  present  one  may  go  forth  ? I feel  confident 
}'0U  know  me  too  well  to  feel  hurt  by  this  en- 
quiry, and  with  equal  confidence  in  you  I have 
lost  no  time  in  preferring  it.”  This  letter, 
printed  from  a copy  in  Dickens’s  handwriting 
fortunately  committed  to  my  keeping,  entirely 
disposes  of  a wonderful  story  * originally  pro- 
mulgated in  America,  with  a minute  particu- 
larity of  detail  that  might  have  raised  the 
reputation  of  Sir  Benjamin  Backbite  himself. 
Whether  all  Sir  Benjamin’s  laurels  however 
should  fall  to  the  person  by  whom  the  tale  is 
told,  or  whether  any  part  belongs  to  the  autho- 
rity alleged  for  it,  is  unfortunately  not  quite 
clear.  There  would  hardly  have  been  a doubt, 


if  the  fable  had  been  confined  to  the  other  side 
of  the  Atlantic ; but  it  has  been  reproduced  and 
widely  circulated  on  this  side  also,  and  the  dis- 
tinguished artist  whom  it  calumniates  by  attri- 
buting the  invention  to  him  has  been  left  unde- 
fended from  its  slander.  Dickens’s  letter  spares 
me  the  necessity  of  characterizing,  by  the  only 
word  which  would  have  been  applicable  to  it,  a 
tale  of  such  incredible  and  monstrous  absurdity 
as  that  one  of  the  masterpieces  of  its  author’s 
genius  had  been  merely  an  illustration  of  etch- 
ings by  Mr.  Cruikshank  ! 

The  completed  Oliver  Twist  found  a circle  of 
admirers,  not  so  wide  in  its  range  as  those  of 
others  of  his  books,  but  of  a character  and  mark 
that  made  their  honest  liking  for  it,  and  steady 
advocacy  of  it,  important  to  his  fame  ; and  the 
story  has  held  its  ground  in  the  first  class  , of 
his  writings.  It  deserves  that  place.  The  ad- 
mitted exaggerations  in  Pickwick  are  incident  to 
its  club’s  extravaganza  of  adventure  of  which 
they  are  part,  and  are  easily  separable  from  the 
reality  of  its  wit  and  humour,  and  its  incom- 
parable freshness ; but  no  such  allowances  were 
needed  here.  Make  what  deduction  the  too 


* Reproduced  as  below,  in  large  type,  and  without  a 
word  of  contradiction  or  even  doubt,  in  a biography  of 
Mr.  Dichens  put  forth  by  Mr.  Hotten.  “Dr.  Shelton 
McKenzie,  in  the  American  Round  Table,  relates  this 
anecdote  of  Oliver  Twist:  In  London  I was  intimate 
with  the  brothers  Cruikshank,  Robert  and  George,  but 
more  particularly  with  the  latter.  Having  called  upon 
him  one  day  at  his  house  (it  was  then  in  Myddelton- 
terrace,  Pentonville),  I had  to  wait  while  he  was  finishing 
an  etching,  for  which  a printer’s  boy  was  waiting.  To 
while  away  the  time,  I gladly  complied  with  his  sugges- 
tion that  I should  look  over  a portfolio  crowded  with 
etchings,  proofs,  and  drawings,  which  lay  upon  the  sofa. 
Among  these,  carelessly  tied  together  in  a wrap  of  brown 
paper,  was  a series  of  some  twenty-five  or  thirty  draw- 
ings, very  carefully  finished,  through  most  of  which  were 
carried  the  well-known  portraits  of  Fagin,  Bill  Sikes  and 
his  dog,  Nancy,  the  Artful  Dodger,  and  Master  Charles 
Bates — all  well  known  to  the  readers  of  Oliver  Twist. 
There  was  no  mistake  about  it ; and  when  Cruikshank 
turned  round,  his  work  finished,  I said  as  much.  He 
told  me  that  it  had  long  been  in  his  mind  to  show  the 
life  of  a London  thief  by  a series  of  drawings  engraved 
by  himself,  in  which,  without  a single  line  of  letter-press, 
the  story  would  be  strikingly  and  clearly  told.  ‘Dickens,’ 
he  continued,  ‘ dropped  in  here  one  day,  just  as  you  have 
done,  and,  while  waiting  until  I could  speak  with  him, 
took  up  that  identical  portfolio,  and  ferreted  out  that 
bundle  of  drawings.  W^hen  he  came  to  that  one  which 
represents  Fagin  in  the  condemned  cell,  he  studied  it  for 
half  an  hour,  and  told  me  that  he  was  tempted  to  change 
the  whole  plot  of  his  story  ; not  to  carry  Oliver  Twist 
through  adventures  in  the  country,  but  to  take  him  up 
into  the  thieves’  den  in  London,  show  what  their  life 
was,  and  bring  Oliver  through  it  without  sin  or  shame. 
I consented  to  let  him  write  up  to  as  many  of  the  designs 
as  he  thought  would  suit  his  purpose  ; and  that  was  Ihe 
way  in  which  Fagin,  Sikes,  and  Nancy  were  created. 
My  drawings  suggested  them,  rather  than  his  strong 
individuality  suggested  my  drawings.’  ” 


scrupulous  reader  of  Oliver  might  please  for 
“lowness”  in  the  subject,  the  precision  and  the 
unexaggerated  force  of  the  delineation  were  not 
to  be  disputed.  The  art  of  copying  from  nature 
as  it  really  exists  in  the  common  walks,  had  not 
been  carried  by  any  one  to  greater  perfectipn, 
or  to  better  results  in  the  way  of  combination. 
Such  was  his  handling  of  the  piece  of  solid, 
existing,  everyday  life,  which  he  made  here  the 
groundwork  of  his  wit  and  tenderness,  that  the 
book  which  did  much  to  help  out  of  the  world 
the  social  evils  it  pourtrayed,  will  probably  pre- 
serve longest  the  picture  of  them  as  they  then 
were.  Thus  far  indeed  he  had  written  nothing 
to  which  in  a greater  or  less  degree  this  felicity 
did  not  belong.  At  the  time  of  which  I am 
speaking,  the  debtors’  prisons  described  in 
Pickwick,  the  parochial  management  denounced 
in  Oliver,  and  the  Yorkshire  schools  exposed  in 
Nicklcby,  w'ere  all  actual  existences  ; which  now 
have  no  vivider  existence  than  in  the  forms  he 
thus  gave  to  them.  With  wiser  purposes,  he 
superseded  the  old  petrifying  process  of  the 
magician  in  the  Arabian  tale,  and  struck  the 
prisons  and  parish  practices  of  his  country,  and 
its  schools  of  neglect  and  crime,  into  palpable 
life  for  ever.  A portion  of  the  truth  of  the  past, 
of  the  character  and  very  history  of  the  moral 
abuses  of  his  time,  w'ill  thus  remain  ahvays  in 
his  waitings;  and  it  wall  be  rememl)ered  that 
with  only  the  light  arms  of  humour  and  laugh- 
ter, and  the  gentle  ones  of  pathos  and  sadness, 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


44 


he  carried  cleansing  and  reform  into  those 
Augean  stables. 

Not  that  such  intentions  are  in  any  degree 
ever  intruded  by  this  least  didactic  of  writers. 
It  is  the  fact  that  teaches,  and  not  any  sermon- 
izing drawn  from  it.  Oliver  Twist  is  the  history 
of  a child  born  in  a workhouse  and  brought  up 
by  parish  overseers,  and  there  is  nothing  intro- 
duced that  is  out  of  keeping  with  the  design. 
It  is  a series  of  pictures  from  the  tragi-comedy 
of  lower  life,  worked  out  by  perfectly  natural 
agencies,  from  the  dying  mother  and  the  starved 
wretches  of  the  first  volume,  through  the  scenes 
and  gradations  of  crime,  careless  or  deliberate, 
which  have  a frightful  consummation  in  the  last 
volume,  but  are  never  without  the  reliefs  and 
self-assertions  of  humanity  even  in  scenes  and 
among  characters  so  debased.  It  is  indeed  the 
primary  purpose  of  the  tale  to  show  its  little 
hero,  jostled  as  he  is  in  the  miserable  crowd, 
preserved  everywhere  from  the  vice  of  its  pollu- 
tion by  an  exquisite  delicacy  of  natural  senti- 
ment which  clings  to  him  under  every  disadvan- 
tage. There  is  not  a more  masterly  touch  in 
fiction  (and  it  is  by  such  that  this  delightful 
fancy  is  consistently  worked  out  to  the  last) 
than  Oliver’s  agony  of  childish  grief  on  being 
brought  away  from  the  branch-workhouse,  the 
wretched  home  associated  only  with  suffering  and 
starvation,  and  with  no  kind  word  or  look,  but 
containing  still  his  little  companions  in  misery. 

Of  the  figures  the  book  has  made  familiar  to 
every  one  it  is  not  my  purpose  to  speak.  To 
name  one  or  two  will  be  enough.  Bumble  and 
his  wife ; Charley  Bates  and  the  Artful  Dodger ; 
the  cowardly  charity  boy,  Noah  Claypole,  whose 
Such  agony  please  sir  puts  a school-life  into  a 
single  phrase  ; the  so-called  merry  old  Jew,  sup- 
ple and  blackhearted  Fagin  ; and  Bill  Sikes,  the 
bolder-faced  bulky-legged  ruffian,  with  his  white 
hat  and  white  shaggy  dog, — who  does  not  know 
them  all,  even  to  the  least  points  of  dress,  look, 
and  walk,  and  all  the  small  peculiarities  that 
express  great  points  of  character?  I have 
omitted  poor  wretched  Nancy;  yet  it  is  to  be 
said  of  her,  with  such  honest  truthfulness  her 
strength  and  weakness  are  shown,  in  the  virtue 
that  lies  neighboured  in  her  nature  so  closely  by 
vice  that  the  people  meant  to  be  entirely  virtu- 
ous show  poorly  beside  her.  But,  though  Rose 
and  her  lover  are  trivial  enough  beside  Bill  and 
his  mistress,  being  indeed  the  weak  part  of  the 
story,  it  is  the  book’s  ])re-eminent  merit  that 
vice  is  no  where  made  attractive  in  it.  Crime 
is  not  more  intensely  odious,  all  through,  than 
it  is  also  most  unhappy.  Not  merely  when  its 
exposure  comes,  when  guilt’s  latent  recesses  are 


laid  bare,  and  the  agonies  of  remorse  are  wit- 
nessed; not  in  the  great  scenes  only,  but  in 
lighter  and  apparently  careless  passages  ; this  is- 
emphatically  so.  Terror  and  retribution  dog 
closely  at  the  heels  both  of  the  comedy  and  the 
tragedy  of  crime.  They  are  as  plainly  visible 
when  Fagin  is  first  shown  in  his  den,  boiling  the 
coffee  in  the  saucepan  and  stopping  every  now 
and  then  to  listen  when  there  is  the  least  noise 
below, — the  villainous  confidence  of  habit  never 
extinguishing  in  him  the  anxious  watchings  and 
listenings  of  crime, — as  when  we  see  him  at  the 
last  in  the  condemned  cell,  like  a poisoned 
human  rat  in  a hole. 

A word  may  be  added  upon  the  attacks  di- 
rected against  the  subject  of  the  book,  to  which 
Dickens  made  reply  in  one  of  his  later  editions; 
declaring  his  belief  that  he  had  tried  to  do  a 
service  to  society,  and  had  certainly  done  no  dis- 
service, in  depicting  a knot  of  such  associates  in 
crime  in  all  their  deformity  and  squalid  wretch- 
edness, skulking  uneasily  through  a miserable 
life  to  a painful  and  shameful  death.  It  is  in- 
deed never  the  subject  that  can  be  objectionable, 
if  the  treatment  is  not  so,  as  we  may  see  by  much 
]5opulor  writing  since,  where  subjects  unimpeach- 
ably high  are  brought  low  by  degrading  sensual- 
ism. When  the  object  of  a writer  is  to  exhibit 
the  vulgarity  of  vice,  and  not  its  pretensions  to 
heroism  or  cravings  for  sympathy,  he  may  mea- 
sure his  subject  with  the  highest.  Swindlers  and 
thieves  are  our  associates  in  Gil  Bias ; we  shake 
hands  with  highwaymen  and  housebreakers  all 
round  in  the  Beggars'  Opera;  we  pack  cards 
with  La  Ruse  or  pick  pockets  with  Jonathan  in 
Fielding’s  Mr.  Wild  the  Great ; cruelty  and  vice 
attend  us  in  the  prints  of  Hogarth  ; but  our 
morals  stand  none  the  looser  for  any  of  them. 
As  the  spirit  of  the  Frenchman  was  ]nire  enjoy- 
ment, the  strength  of  the  Englishmen  lay  in 
wisdom  and  satire.  The  low  was  set  forth  to 
])ull  down  the  false  pretensions  of  the  high. 
They  differ  in  design  from  Dickens,  because  they 
desire  less  to  discover  the  soul  of  goodness  in 
things  evil  than  to  brand  the  stamp  of  evil  ort 
things  apt  to  pass  for  good,  but  their  objects  and 
results  are  substantially  the  same,  hamiliar  with 
the  lowest  kind  of  abasement  of  life,  the  know- 
ledge is  used,  by  both  him  and  tlicm,  to  teach 
what  constitutes  its  essential  elevation;  and  by 
the  very  coarseness  and  vulgarity  of  the  materials 
employed,  we  measure  the  gentlemanliness  and 
beauty  of  the  work  that  is  done.  The  quack  in 
morality  will  always  call  such  writing  immoral, 
and  the  impostors  will  continue  to  complain  of 
its  treatment  of  imposture ; but  for  the  rest  ot 
the  world  it  will  teach  still  the  invaluable  lesson. 


NICHOLAS 

of  wliat  men  ought  to  be  from  what  they  are. 
We  cannot  learn  it  more  than  enough.  We  can- 
not too  often  be  told  that  as  the  pride  and  gran- 
deur of  mere  e.xternal  circumstance  is  the  falsest 
of  earthly  things,  so  the  truth  of  virtue  in  the 
heart  is  the  most  lovely  and  lasting ; and  from 
the  pages  of  Oliver  Twist  this  teaching  is  once 
again  to  be  taken  by  all  who  will  look  for  it  there. 

And  now,  while  Oliver  was  running  a great 
career  of  popularity  and  success,  the  shadow  of 
the  tale  of  Baniaby  Rudge  which  he  was  to  write 
on  similar  terms,  and  to  begin  in  the  Miseellany 
when  the  other  should  have  ended,  began  to 
darken  everything  around  him.  We  had  much 
discussion  respecting  it,  and  I had  no  small  diffi- 
culty in  restraining  him  from  throwing  up  the 
agreement  altogether  ; but  the  real  hardship  of 
his  position,  and  the  considerate  construction  to 
be  placed  on  every  effort  made  by  him  to  escape 
from  obligations  incurred  in  ignorance  of  the 
sacrifices  implied  by  them,  will  be  best  under- 
stood from  his  own  frank  statement.  On  the 
2ist  of  January,  1839,  enclosing  me  the  copy  of 
a letter  which  he  proposed  to  send  to  Mr.  Bentley 
the  following  morning,  he  thus  wrote  ; — “From 
what  I have  already  said  to  you,  you  will  have 
been  led  to  e.xpect  that  I entertained  some  such 
intention.  I know  you  will  not  endeavour  to 
dissuade  me  from  sending  it.  Go  it  must.  It 
is  no  fiction  to  say  that  at  present  I eannot  write 
this  tale.  The  immense  profits  which  Oliver 
has  realized  to  its  publisher,  and  is  still  realizing ; 
the  paltry,  wretched,  miserable  sum  it  brought  to 
me  (not  equal  to  what  is  every  day  paid  for  a 
novel  that  sells  fifteen  hundred  copies  at  most)  ; 
the  recollection  of  this,  and  the  consciousness 
that  I have  still  the  slavery  and  drudgery  of  an- 
other work  on  the  same  journeyman-terms  ; the 
consciousness  that  my  books  are  enriching  every- 
body connected  with  them  but  myself,  and  that 
I,  with  such  a popularity  as  I have  acquired,  am 
struggling  in  old  toils,  and  wasting  my  energies 
in  the  very  height  and  freshness  of  my  fame,  and 
the  best  part  of  my  life,  to  fill  the  pockets  of 
others,  while  for  those  who  are  nearest  and 
dearest  to  me  I can  realize  little  more  than  a 
genteel  subsistence : all  this  puts  me  out  of 
heart  and  spirits ; and  I cannot — cannot  and 
will  not — under  such  circumstances  that  keep 
me  down  with  an  iron  hand,  distress  myself  by 
beginning  this  tale  until  I have  had  time  to 
breathe ; and  until  the  intervention  of  the  sum- 
mer, and  some  cheerful  days  in  the  country, 
shall  have  restored  me  to  a more  genial  and  com- 
posed state  of  feeling.  There — for  six  months 
Barnaby  Rudge  stands  over.  And  but  for  you, 
it  should  stand  over  altogether.  For  I do  most 


NICKLEBY. 


solemnly  declare  that  morally,  before  God  and 
man,  I hold  myself  released  from  such  hard 
bargains  as  these,  after  I have  done  so  much  for 
those  who  drove  them.  This  net  that  has  been 
wound  about  me,  so  chafes  me,  so  exasperates 
and  irritates  my  mind,  that  to  break  it  at  what- 
ever cost — that  I should  care  nothing  for — is  my 
constant  impulse.  But  I have  not  yielded  to  it. 
I merely  declare  that  I must  have  a postpone- 
ment very  common  in  all  literary  agreements ; 
and  for  the  time  I have  mentioned — six  months 
from  the  conclusion  of  Oliver  in  the  Miseellany 
— I wash  my  hands  of  any  fresh  accumulation  of 
labour,  and  resolve  to  proceed  as  cheerfully  as  I 
can  with  that  which  already  presses  upon  me.” 
To  describe  what  followed  upon  this  is  not 
necessary.  It  will  suffice  to  state  the  results. 
Upon  the  appearance  in  the  Miseellany,  in  the 
early  months  of  1839,  portion  of 

Oliver  Twist,  its  author,  having  been  relieved 
altogether  from  his  engagement  to  the  magazine, 
handed  over,  in  a familiar  epistle  from  a parent 
to  his  child,  the  editorship  to  Mr.  Ainsworth ; 
and  the  still  subsisting  agreement  to  write  Bar- 
naby Rudge  was,  upon  the  overture  of  Mr. 
Bentley  himself  in  June  of  the  following  year, 
r84o,  also  put  an  end  to,  on  payment  by  Dickens, 
for  the  copyright  of  Oliver  Twist  dsnd  such  printed 
stock  as  remained  of  the  edition  then  on  hand, 
of  two  thousand  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds. 
What  was  farther  incident  to  this  transaction  will 
be  told  hereafter  ; and  a few  words  may  mean- 
while be  taken,  not  without  significance  in  regard 
to  it,  from  the  parent’s  familiar  epistle.  It  de- 
scribes the  child  as  aged  two  years  and  two 
months  (so  long  had  he  watched  over  it)  ; gives 
sundry  pieces  of  advice  concerning  its  circula- 
tion, and  the  importance  thereto  of  light  and 
pleasant  articles  of  food ; and  concludes,  after 
some  general  moralizing  on  the  shiftings  and 
changes  of  this  world  having  taken  so  wonder- 
ful a turn  that  mail-coach  guards  were  become 
no  longer  judges  of  horse-flesh  ; “ I reap  no  gain 
or  profit  by  parting  from  you,  nor  will  any  con- 
veyance of  your  property  be  required,  for  in  this 
respect  you  have  always  been  literally  Bentley’s. 
Miscellany  and  never  mine.” 

IV. 

NICHOLAS  NICKLEBY. 

1838  AND  1839. 

I WELL  recollect  the  doubt  there  was,  mixed 
with  the  eager  expectation  which  the  an- 
nouncement of  his  second  serial  story  had 


40  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


awakened,  whether  the  event  would  justify  all 
that  interest;  and  if  indeed  it  were  possible  that 
the  young  writer  could  continue  to  walk  steadily  j 
under  the  burthen  of  the  popularity  laid  upon  him.  j 
The  first  number  dispersed  this  cloud  of  a ques-  | 
tion  in  a burst  of  sunshine  ; and  as  much  of  the  j 
gaiety  of  nations  as  had  been  eclipsed  by  old  1 
Mr.  Pickwick’s  voluntary  exile  to  Dulwich,  was  | 
restored  by  the  cheerful  confidence  with  which  i 
young  Mr.  Nicholas  Nickleby  stepped  into  his 
shoes.  Everything  that  had  given  charm  to  the  j 
first  book  was  here,  with  more  attention  to  the  | 
important  requisite  of  a story,  and  more  wealth 
as  well  as  truth  of  character. 

Plow  this  was  poured  forth  in  each  successive 
number,  it  hardly  needs  that  I should  tell.  To 
recall  it  now,  is  to  talk  of  what  since  has  so 
interwoven  itself  with  common  speech  and 
thought,  as  to  have  become  almost  part  of  the 
daily  life  of  us  all.  It  was  well  said  of  him, 
soon  after  his  death,  in  mentioning  how  largely 
his  compositions  had  furnished  one  of  the  chief 
sources  of  intellectual  enjoyment  to  this  genera- 
tion, that  his  language  had  become  part  of  the 
language  of  every  class  and  rank  of  his  country- 
men, and  his  characters  were  a portion  of  our 
contemporaries.  “ It  seems  scarcely  possible,” 
continued  this  otherwise  not  too  indulgent  com- 
mentator, “ to  believe  that  there  never  were  any 
such  persons  as  Mr.  Pickwick  and  Mrs.  Nickleby 
and  Mrs.  Gamp.  They  are  to  us  not  only  types 
-of  English  life,  but  types  actually  existing.  They 
at  once  revealed  the  existence  of  such  people, 
and  made  them  thoroughly  comprehensible. 
They  were  not  studies  of  persons,  but  persons. 
And  yet  they  were  idealized  in  the  sense  that 
the  reader  did  not  think  that  they  were  drawn 
from  the  life.  They  were  alive  ; they  were  them- 
selves.” The  writer  might  have  added  that  this 
is  proper  to  all  true  masters  of  fiction  who  work 
in  the  higher  regions  of  their  calling. 

Nothing  certainly  could  express  better  Avhat 
the  new  book  was  at  this  time  making  manifest 
to  its  thousands  of  readers ; not  simply  an  as- 
tonishing variety  in  the  creations  of  character, 
but  what  it  was  that  made  these  creations  so 
real ; not  merely  the  writer’s  wealth  of  genius, 
but  the  secret  and  form  of  his  art.  There  never 
was  any  one  who  had  less  need  to  talk  about  his 
characters,  because  never  were  characters  so 
surely  revealed  by  themselves ; and  it  was  thus 
their  reality  made  itself  felt  at  once.  They 
talked  so  well  that  everybody  took  to  repeating 
what  they  said,  as  the  writer  just  quoted  has 
pointed  out;  and  the  sayings  being  the  con- 
stituent elements  of  the  characters,  these  also 
of  themselves  became  part  of  the  public.  This, 


which  must  always  be  a novelist’s  highest 
achievement,  was  the  art  carried  to  exquisite 
perfection  on  a more  limited  stage  by  Miss 
Austen ; and,  under  widely  different  condi- 
tions both  of  art  and  work,  it  was  pre-emi- 
nently that  of  Dickens.  I told  him,  on  reading 
the  first  dialogue  of  Mrs.  Nickleby  and  Miss 
Knag,  that  he  had  been  lately  reading  Miss 
Bates  in  Emma,  but  I found  that  he  had  not  at 
this  time  made  the  acquaintance  of  that  fine 
writer. 

Who  that  recollects  the  numbers  of  N'ickkby 
as  they  appeared  can  have  forgotten  how  each 
number  added  to  the  general  enjoyment  ? All 
that  had  given  Pickwick  its  vast  popularity,  the 
overflowing  mirth,  hearty  exuberance  of  humour, 
and  genial  kindliness  of  satire,  had  here  the 
advantage  of  a better  laid  design,  more  con- 
nected incidents,  and  greater  precision  of  cha- 
racter. Everybody  seemed  immediately  to  know 
the  Nickleby  family  as  well  as  his  own.  Dothe- 
boys,  with  all  that  rendered  it,  like  a piece  by 
Hogarth,  both  ludicrous  and  terrible,  became  a 
household  word.  Successive  groups  of  Manta- 
linis,  Kenwigses,  Crummleses,  introduced  each 
its  little  world  of  reality,  lighted  up  everywhere 
with  truth  and  life,  with  capital  observation,  the 
quaintest  drollery,  and  quite  boundless  mirth 
and  fun.  The  brothers  Cheeryble  brought  with 
them  all  the  charities.  With  Smike  came  the  / 
first  of  those  pathetic  pictures  that  filled  the' 
world  with  pity  for  what  cruelty,  ignorance,  or 
neglect  may  inflict  upon  the  young.  And  New- 
man Noggs  ushered  in  that  class  of  the  creatures 
of  his  fancy  in  which  he  took  himself  perhaps  the 
most  delight,  and  which  the  oftener  he  dealt  with 
the  more  he  seemeil  to  know  how  to  vary  and 
render  attractive  ; gentlemen  by  nature,  however 
shocking  bad  their  hats  or  ungenteel  their  dia- 
lects ; ])hilosophers  of  modest  endurance,  and 
needy  but  most  respectable  coats  ; a sort  of 
humble  angels  of  sympathy  and  sell  - denial, 
though  without  a particle  of  splendour  or  even 
good  looks  about  them,  except  what  an  eye  as 
fine  as  their  own  feelings  might  discern.  “ My 
friends,”  wrote  Sydney  Smith,  describing  to 
Dickens  the  anxiety  of  some  ladies  of  his  ac- 
quaintance to  meet  him  at  dinner,  “ have  not 
the  smallest  objection  to  be  put  into  a number, 
but  on  the  contrary  would  be  jiroud  of  the  tlis- 
tinction  ; and  Lady  Charlotte,  in  ])articular,  you 
may  marry  to  Newman  Noggs.”  Lady  Charlotte 
was  not  a more  real  person  to  Sydney  than 
Newman  Noggs ; and  all  the  workl  whom 
Dickens  attracted  to  his  books  could  draw  from 
them  the  same  advantage  as  the  man  of  wit 
and  genius.  It  has  been  lately  objected  that 


humanity  is  not  seen  in  them  in  its  highest  or 
noblest  types,  and  the  assertion  may  Iiereafter 
be  worth  considering ; but  what  is  very  certain 
is,  tliat  they  have  inculcated  humanity  in  fami- 
liar and  engaging  forms  to  thousands  and  tens 
of  thousands  of  their  readers,  who  can  hardly 
have  failed  each  to  make  his  little  world  around 
him  somewhat  the  better  for  their  teaching. 
From  first  to  last  they  were  never  for  a moment 
alien  to  either  the  sympathies  or  the  understand- 
ings of  any  class;  and  there  were  crowds  of 
people  at  this  time  that  could  not  have  told  you 
what  imagination  meant,  who  were  adding  month 
by  month  to  their  limited  stores  the  boundless 
gains  of  imagination. 

One  other  kindliest  product  of  humour  in 
Nickkby,  not  to  be  passed  over  in  even  thus 
briefly  recalling  a few  first  impressions  of  it,  was 
the  good  little  miniature  painter  Miss  La  Creevy, 
living  by  herself,  overflowing  with  affections  she 
has  no  one  to  enrich  by,  but  always  cheerful  by 
dint  of  industry  and  good  heartedness.  When 
she  is  disappointed  in  the  character  of  a woman 
she  has  been  to  see,  she  eases  her  mind  by  say- 
ing a very  cutting  thing  at  her  e.xpense  in  a 
soliloquy : and  thereby  illustrates  one  of  the  ad- 
vantages of  having  lived  alone  so  long,  that  she 
always  made  a confidant  of  herself;  was  as  sar- 
castic as  she  could  be,  by  herself,  on  people  who 
offended  her ; pleased  herself,  and  did  no  harm,  i 
Here  was  one  of  those  touches,  made  afterwards  I 
familiar  to  the  readers  of  Dickens  by  innume- 
rable similar  fancies,  which  added  affection  to 
their  admiration  for  the  writer,  and  enabled  them 
to  anticipate  the  feeling  with  which  posterity 
would  regard  him  as  indeed  the  worthy  com- 
panion of  the  Goldsmiths  and  Fieldings.  There 
was  a piece  of  writing,  too,  within  not  many 
pages  of  it,  of  which  Leigh  Hunt  exclaimed  on 
reading  it  that  it  surpassed  the  best  things  of  the 
kind  in  Smollett  that  he  was  able  to  call  to  mind. 
This  was  the  letter  of  Miss  Squeers  to  Ralph 
Nickleby,  giving  him  her  version  of  the  chastise- 
ment inflicted  by  Nicholas  on  the  schoolmaster. 

“ My  pa  requests  me  to  write  to  you,  the  doctors 
considering  it  doubtful  whether  he  will  ever  re- 
cuvver  the  use  of  his  legs  which  prevents  his 
holding  a pen.  We  are  in  a state  of  mind  be- 
yond everything,  and  my  pa  is  one  mask  of 
brooses  both  blue  and  green  likewise  two  forms 

are  steepled  in  his  Goar Me  and  my 

brother  were  then  the  victims  of  his  feury  since 
which  we  have  suffered  very  much  which  leads 
us  to  the  arrowing  belief  that  we  have  received 
some  injury  in  our  insides,  especially  as  no 
marks  of  violence  are  visible  externally.  I am 
screaming  out  loud  all  the  time  I write  and  so  is 


my  brother  which  takes  off  my  attention  rather 
and  I hope  will  excuse  mistakes.”  .... 

Thus  rapidly  may  be  indicated  some  elements 
that  contributed  to  the  sudden  and  astonish- 
ingly wide  popularity  of  these  books.  I pur- 
posely reserve  from  my  present  notices  of  them, 
which  are  biographical  rather  than  critical,  any 
statement  of  the  reasons  for  which  I think  them 
inferior  in  imagination  and  fancy  to  some  of 
the  later  works ; but  there  was  increasing  and 
steady  growth  in  them  on  the  side  of  humour, 
observation,  and  character,  while  freshness  and 
raciness  of  style  continued  to  be  an  important 
help.  There  are  faults  of  occasional  exaggera- 
tion in  the  writing,  but  none  that  do  not  spring 
from  animal  spirits  and  good  humour,  or  a par- 
donable excess,  here  and  there,  on  the  side  of 
earnestness ; and  it  has  the  rare  virtue,  whether 
gay  or  grave,  of  being  always  thoroughly  intel- 
ligible and  for  the  most  part  thoroughly  natural, 
of  suiting  itself  without  effort  to  every  change  of 
mood,  as  quick,  warm,  and  comprehensive,  as 
the  sympathies  it  is  taxed  to  express.  The  tone 
also  is  excellent.  We  are  never  repelled  by 
egotism  or  conceit,  and  misplaced  ridicule  never 
disgusts  us.  When  good  is  going  on,  we  are 
sure  to  see  all  the  beauty  of  it ; and , when 
there  is  evil,  we  are  in  no  danger  of  mistaking 
it  for  good.  No  one  can  paint  more  pictu- 
resquely by  an  apposite  epithet,  or  illustrate 
more  happily  by  a choice  allusion.  Whatever 
he  knows  or  feels,  too,  is  always  at  his  fingers’ 
ends,  and  is  present  through  whatever  he  is 
doing.  What  Rebecca  says  to  Ivanhoe  of  the 
black  knight’s  mode  of  fighting  would  not  be 
wholly  inapplicable  to  Dickens’s  manner  of 
writing.  “ There  is  more  than  mere  strength, 
there  seems  as  if  the  whole  soul  and  spirit  of  v. 
the  champion  were  given  to  every  blow  he 
deals.”  This,  when  a man  deals  his  blows  with 
a pen,  is  the  sort  of  handling  that  freshens  with 
new  life  the  oldest  facts,  and  breathes  into 
thoughts  the  most  familiar  an  emotion  not  felt 
before.  There  seemed  to  be  not  much  to  add 
to  our  knowledge  of  London  until  his  books 
came  upon  us,  but  each  in  this  respect  out- 
stripped the  other  in  its  marvels.  In  Nickleby 
the  old  city  reappears  under  every  aspect ; and 
whether  warmth  and  light  are  playing  over  what 
is  good  and  cheerful  in  it,  or  the  veil  is  uplifted 
from  its  darker  scenes,  it  is  at  all  times  our 
privilege  to  see  and  feel  it  as  it  absolutely  is. 

Its  interior  hidden  life  becomes  familiar  as  its 
commonest  outward  forms,  and  we  discover  that 
we  hardly  know  anything  of  the  places  we  sup- 
posed that  we  knew  the  best. 

Of  such  notices  as  his  letters  give  of  his  pro- 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


48 


gress  with  Nickleby,  which  occupied  him  from 
February  1838  to  October  1839,  something 
may  now  be  said.  Soon  after  the  agreement 
for  it  was  signed,  before  the  Christmas  of  1837 
was  over,  he  went  down  into  Yorkshire  with 
Mr.  Hablot  Browne  to  look  up  the  Cheap 
Schools  in  that  county  to  which  public  attention 
had  been  painfully  drawn  by  a law  case  in  the 
previous  year;  which  had  before  been  notorious 
for  cruelties  committed  in  them,  whereof  he  had 
heard  as  early  as  in  his  childish  days ; and 
which  he  was  bent  upon  destroying  if  he  could. 
I soon  heard  the  result  of  his  journey;  and  the 
substance  of  that  letter,  returned  to  him  for  the 
purpose,  is  in  his  preface  to  the  story  rvritten  for 
the  collected  edition.  He  came  back  confirmed 
in  his  design,  and  in  February  set  to  work  upon 
his  first  chapter.  On  his  birthday  he  wrote  to 
me.  I have  begun  ! I wrote  four  slips  last 
night,  so  you  see  the  beginning  is  made.  And 
what  is  m.ore,  I can  go  on  : so  I hope  the  book 
is  in  training  at  last.”  “ The  first  chapter  of 
Nicholas  is  done,”  he  wrote  two  days  later.  “ It 
took  time,  but  I think  answers  the  purpose  as 
well  as  it  could.”  Then,  after  a dozen  days 
more  : “ I wrote  twenty  slips  of  Nicholas  yester- 
day, left  only  four  to  do  this  morning  (up  at 
8 o’clodc  too  !),  and  have  ordered  my  horse  at 
one.”  I joined  him  as  he  expected,  and  we 
read  together  at  dinner  that  day  the  first  num- 
ber of  Nicholas  Nickleby. 

In  the  following  number  there  was  a difficulty 
which  it  was  marvellous  should  not  oftener  have 
occurred  to  him  in  this  form  of  publication. 
“ I could  not  write  a line  till  three  o’clock,”  he 
says,  describing  the  close  of  that  number,  “ and 
have  yet  five  slips  to  finish,  and  don’t  know 
what  to  put  in  them,  for  I have  reached  the 
point  I meant  to  leave  off  with.”  He  found 
easy  remedy  for  such  a miscalculation  at  his 
outset,  and  it  was  nearly  his  last  as  well  as  first 
misadventure  of  the  kind  : his  constant  difficulty 
in  Pickwick,  as  he  said  repeatedly,  having  been 
not  the  running  short  but  the  running  over : 
not  the  whip  but  the  drag  that  was  wanted. 
Sufflaminandus  erat,  as  Ben  Jonson  said  of 
Shakespeare.  And  in  future  works,  with  such 
marvellous  nicety  could  he  do  always  what  he 
had  planned,  strictly  within  the  space  available, 
that  I can  only  remember  two  other  similar 
instances.  The  third  number  introduced  the 
school ; and  “ I remain  dissatisfied  until  you 
have  seen  and  read  number  three,”  was  liis  way 
of  announcing  to  me  his  own  satisfaction  with 
that  first  handling  of  Dotheboys-hall.  Nor  had 
it  the  least  part  in  my  admiration  of  his  powers 
at  this  time,  that  he  never  wrote  without  the 


printer  at  his  heels ; that,  always  in  his  latest 
works  two  or  three  numbers  in  advance,  he  was 
never  a single  number  in  advance  with  this 
story ; that  the  more  urgent  the  call  upon  him 
the  more  readily  he  rose  to  it ; and  that  his 
^ astonishing  animal  spirits  never  failed  him.  As 
^ late  as  the  20th  in  the  November  month  of 
1838,  he  thus  wrote  to  me  : “ I have  just  begun 
my  second  chapter;  cannot  go  out  to-night; 
must  get  on ; think  there  will  be  a Nickleby 
at  the  end  of  this  month  now  (I  doubted  it 
before) ; and  want  to  make  a start  towards  it  if 
I possibly  can.”  That  was  on  Tuesday;  and 
on  Friday  morning  in  the  same  week,  explaining 
the  sudden  failure  of  something  that  had  been 
promised  the  previous  day,  he  says:  “I  was 
writing  incessantly  until  it  was  time  to  dress ; 
and  have  not  yet  got  the  subject  of  my  last 
chapter,  which  must  be  finished  to-night.” 

But  this  was  not  all.  Between  that  Tuesday 
and  Friday  an  indecent  assault  had  been  com- 
mitted on  his  book  by  a theatrical  adapter 
named  Stirling,  who  seized  upon  it  without 
leave  while  yet  only  a third  of  it  was  written ; 
hacked,  cut,  and  garbled  its  dialogue  to  the 
shape  of  one  or  two  favourite  actors ; invented 
for  it  a plot  and  an  ending  of  his  own,  and  pro- 
duced it  at  the  Adelphi ; where  the  outraged 
author,  hard  pressed  as  he  was  with  an  un- 
finished number,  had  seen  it  in  the  interval 
between  the  two  letters  I have  quoted.  He 
would  not  have  run  such  a risk  in  later  years, 
but  he  threw  off  lightly  at  present  even  such 
offences  to  his  art ; and  though  I was  with  him 
at  a representation  of  his  Oliver  Twist  the  fol- 
lowing month  at  the  Surrey-theatre,  when  in  the 
middle  of  the  first  scene  he  laid  himself  down 
upon  the  floor  in  a corner  of  the  box  and  never 
rose  from  it  until  the  drop-scene  fell,  he  had 
been  able  to  sit  through  Nickleby,  and  to  see  a 
merit  in  parts  of  the  representation.  Mr.  Yates 
liad  a sufficiently  humorous  meaning  in  his 
wildest  extravagance,  and  Mr.  O.  Smith  could 
])ut  into  his  queer  angular  oddities  enough  of  a 
hard  dry  pathos,  to  conjure  up  shadows  at  least 
of  Mantalini  and  Newman  Noggs;  of  Ralph 
Nickleby  there  was  only  a wig,  a spencer,  and  a 
pair  of  boots,  but  a quaint  actor  named  Wilkin- 
son proved  equal  to  the  drollery,  though  not 
to  the  fierce  brutality  of  Squeers ; and  even 
Dickens,  in  the  letter  that  amazed  me  by  telling 
me  of  his  visit  to  the  theatre,  was  able  to  ])raise 
“ the  skilful  management  and  dressing  of  the 
boys,  the  capital  manner  and  sjreech  of  Fanny 
Sejueers,  the  dramatic  representation  of  her  canl- 
party  in  Stpieers’s  parlour,  the  careful  making-u|> 
of  all  the  people,  and  the  e.xceedingly  gootl 


NICHOLAS 


tableaux  formed  from  Browne’s  sketches 

Mrs.  Keele)'’s  first  appearance  beside  the  fire 
(see  wollum),  and  all  the  rest  of  Smike,  was 
excellent ; bating  sundry  choice  sentiments  and 
rubbish  regarding  the  little  robins  in  the  fields 
which  have  been  put  in  the  boy’s  mouth  by  Mr. 
Stirling  the  adapter.”  His  toleration  could 
hardly  be  extended  to  the  robins,  and  their 
author  he  properly  punished  by  introducing  and 
denouncing  him  at  Mr.  Crummies’s  farewell 
supper. 

The  story  was  well  in  hand  at  the  next  letter 
to  be  quoted,  for  I limit  myself  to  those  only 
with  allusions  that  are  characteristic  or  illustra- 
tive. “ I must  be  alone  in  my  glory  to-day,”  he 
wrote,  “ and  see  what  I can  do.  I perpetrated 
a great  amount  of  work  yesterday,  and  have 
every  day  indeed  since  Monday,  but  I must 
buckle-to  again  and  endeavour  to  get  the  steam 
up.  If  this  were  to  go  on  long,  I should  ‘ bust  ’ 
the  boiler.  I think  Mrs.  Nickleby’s  love-scene 
will  come  out  rather  unique.”  The  steam  doubt- 
less rose  dangerously  high  when  such  happy  in- 
spiration came.  It  was  but  a few  numbers 
earlier  than  this,  while  that  eccentric  lady  was 
imparting  her  confidences  to  Miss  Knag,  that 
Sidney  Smith  confessed  himself  vanquished  by 
a humour  against  which  his  own  had  long  striven 
to  hold  out.  “ Nickleby  is  very  good"  he  wrote  to 
Sir  George  Phillips  after  the  sixth  number.  “ I 
stood  out  against  Mr.  Dickens  as  long  as  I could, 
but  he  has  conquered  me.” 

The  close  of  the  story  was  written  at  Broad- 
stairs,  from  which  (he  had  taken  a house  “ two 
doors  from  the  Albion-hotel,  where  we  had  that 
merry  night  two  years  ago  ”)  he  wrote  to  me  on 
the  9th  September  1839.  “ I am  hard  at  it,  but 

these  windings-up  wind  slowly,  and  I shall  think 
I have  done  great  things  if  I have  entirely 
finished  by  the  20th.  Chapman  and  Hall  came 
down  yesterday  with  Browne’s  sketches,  and 
dined  here.  They  imparted  their  intentions  as 
to  a Nicklebeian  fete  which  will  make  you 
laugh  heartily — so  I reserve  them  till  you  come. 
It  has  been  blowing  great  guns  for  the  last  three 
days,  and  last  night  (I  wish  you  could  have  seen 
it !)  there  was  such  a sea ! I staggered  down  to 
the  pier,  and  creeping  under  the  lee  of  a large 
boat  which  was  high  and  dry,  watched  it  break- 
ing for  nearly  an  hour.  Of  course  I came  back 
wet  through.”  On  the  afternoon  of  Wednesday 
the  i8th  he  wrote  again.  “ I shall  not  finish 
entirely  before  Friday,  sending  Hicks  the  last 
twenty  pages  of  manuscript  by  the  night  coach. 
I have  had  pretty  stiff  work  as  you  may  suppose, 
and  I have  taken  great  pains.  The  discovery  is 
made,  Ralph  is  dead,  the  loves  have  come  all 


NICKLEB  V.  49 


right,  'Pirn  Linkinwater  has  proposed,  and  I have 
now  only  to  break  up  Dotheboys  and  the  book 
together.  I am  very  anxious  that  you  should 
see  this  conclusion  before  it  leaves  my  hands, 
and  I plainly  see  therefore  that  I must  come  to 
town  myself  on  Saturday  if  I would  not  endanger 
the  appearance  of  the  number.  So  I have 
written  to  Hicks  to  send  proofs  to  your  cham- 
bers as  soon  as  he  can  that  evening ; and  if  you 
don’t  object  I will  dine  with  you  any  time  after 
five,  and  we  will  devote  the  night  to  a careful 
reading.  I have  not  written  to  Macready,  for 
they  have  not  yet  sent  me  the  title-page  of  dedi- 
cation, which  is  merely  ‘To  W.  C.  Macready 
Esq.  the  following  pages  are  inscribed,  as  a 
slight  token  of  admiration  and  regard,  by  his 
friend  the  Author.’  Meanwhile  will  you  let 
him  know  that  I have  fixed  the  Nickleby  dinner 
for  Saturday  the  5th  of  October.  Place,  the 
Albion  in  Aldersgate-street.  Time,  six  for  half- 
past exactly I shall  be  more  glad  than 

I can  tell  you  to  see  you  again,  and  I look  for- 
ward to  Saturday,  and  the  evenings  that  are  to 
follow  it,  with  most  joyful  anticipation.  I have 
had  a good  notion  for  Barnaby,  of  which  more 
anon.” 

The  shadow  from  the  old  quarter,  we  see,  the 
unwritten  Barnaby  tale,  intrudes  itself  still ; 
though  hardly,  as  of  old,  making  other  pleasanter 
anticipations  less  joyful.  Such  indeed  at  this 
time  was  his  buoyancy  of  spirit  that  it  cost  him 
little,  compared  with  the  suffering  it  gave  him 
at  subsequent  similar  times,  to  separate  from 
the  people  who  for  twenty  months  had  been  a 
part  of  himself.  The  increased  success  they  had 
achieved  left  no  present  room  but  for  gladness 
and  well-won  pride;  and  so,  to  welcome  them 
into  the  immortal  family  of  the  English  novel, 
and  open  cheerily  to  their  author  “ fresh  woods 
and  pastures  new,”  we  had  the  dinner-celebra- 
tion. But  there  is  small  need  now  to  speak  of 
what  has  left,  to  one  of  the  few  survivors,  only 
the  sadness  of  remembering  that  all  who  made 
the  happiness  of  it  are  passed  away.  There  was 
Talfourd,  facile  and  fluent  of  kindliest  speech,  with 
whom  we  were  in  constant  and  cordial  intercourse, 
and  to  whom,  grateful  for  his  copyright  exer- 
tions in  the  house  of  commons,  he  had  dedicated 
Pickwick;  there  was  Maclise,  dear  and  familiar 
friend  to  us  both,  whose  lately  painted  portrait 
of  Dickens  hung  in  the  room ; and  there  was 
the  painter  of  the  Rent-day,  who  made  a speech 
as  good  as  his  pictures,  rich  in  colour  and  quaint 
with  homely  allusion,  all  about  the  reality  of 
Dickens’s  genius,  and  how  there  had  been 
nothing  like  him  issuing  his  novels  part  by  part 
since  Richardson  issued  his  novels  volume  by 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


volume,  and  how  in  both  cases  people  talked 
about  the  characters  as  if  they  were  next-door 
neighbours  or  friends,  and  how  as  many  letters 
were  written  to  the  author  of  Nickleby  to  implore 
him  not  to  kill  poor  Smike  as  had  been  sent  by 
young  ladies  to  the  author  of  Clarissa  to  “ save 
Lovelace’s  soul  alive.”  These  and  others  are 
gone.  Of  those  who  survive  only  three  arise  to 
my  memory- — Macready,*  who  spoke  his  sense 
of  the  honour  done  him  by  the  dedication  in 
English  as  good  as  his  delivery  of  it,  Mr.  Edward 
Chapman,  and  Mr.  Thomas  Beard. 


V. 


DURING  AND  AFTER  NICKLEBY. 


1838  AND  1839. 

HE  name  of  his  old  gallery-com- 
panion may  carry  me  back  from  the 
days  to  which  the  close  of  Nickleby 
had  led  me,  to  those  when  it  was 
only  beginning.  “ This  snow  will 
take  away  the  cold  weather,”  he  had 
written,  in  that  birthday-letter  of  1838 
already  quoted,  “and  then  for  Twicken- 
ham.” Here  a cottage  was  taken,  nearly  all  the 
summer  was  passed,  and  a familiar  face  there 
was  Mr.  Beard’s.  There,  too,  with  Talfourd 
and  with  Thackeray  and  Jerrold,  we  had  many 
friendly  days  ; and  the  social  charm  of  Maclise 
was  seldom  wanting.  Nor  was  there  anything 
that  exercised  a greater  fascination  over  Dickens 
than  the  grand  enjoyment  of  idleness,  the  ready 
self-abandonment  to  the  luxury  of  laziness, 
which  we  both  so  laughed  at  in  Maclise,  under 
whose  easy  swing  of  indifference,  always  the 
most  amusing  at  the  most  aggravating  events 
and  times,  we  knew  that  there  was  artist  work 
as  eager,  energy  as  unwearying,  and  observation 
almost  as  penetrating  as  Dickens’s  own.  A 
greater  enjoyment  than  the  felFowship  of  Maclise 
at  this  period  it  would  indeed  be  difficult  to 
imagine.  Dickens  hardly  saw  more  than  he 
did,  while  yet  he  seemed  to  be  seeing  nothing ; 
and  the  small  esteem  in  which  this  rare  faculty 
was  held  by  himself,  a quaint  oddity  that  in  him 
gave  to  shrewdness  itself  an  air  of  Irish  sim- 
plicity, his  unquestionable  turn  for  literature, 
and  a varied  knowledge  of  books  not  always 
connected  with  such  intense  love  and  such  un- 
wearied jtractice  of  one  special  and  absorbing 
art,  combined  to  render  him  attractive  far  be- 
*■  Since,  alas,  also  gone. 


yond  the  common.  His  fine  genius  and  his 
handsome  person,  of  neither  of  which  at  any 
time  he  seemed  himself  to  be  in  the  slightest 
degree  conscious,  completed  the  charm.  Edwin 
Landseer,  all  the  world’s  favourite,  and  the  ex- 
cellent Stanfield,  came  a few  months  later,  in 
the  Devonshire-terrace  days;  but  another  painter- 
friend  was  George  Cattermole,  who  had  then 
enough  and  to  spare  of  fun  as  well  as  fancy  to 
supply  ordinary  artists  and  humourists  by  the 
dozen,  and  wanted  only  a little  more  ballast  and 
steadiness  to  possess  all  that  could  give  attrac- 
tion to  good  fellowship.  A friend  now  especially 
welcome,  also,  was  the  novelist  Mr.  Ainsworth, 
who  shared  with  us  incessantly  for  the  three 
following  years  in  the  companionship  which 
began  at  his  house ; with  whom  we  visited,  dur- 
ing two  of  those  years,  friends  of  art  and  letters 
in  his  native  Manchester,  from  among  whom 
Dickens  brought  away  his  Brothers  Cheeryble ; 
and  to  whose  sympathy  in  tastes  and  pursuits, 
accomplishments  in  literature,  open-hearted 
generous  ways,  and  cordial  hospitality,  many  of 
the  pleasures  of  later  years  were  due.  Frederick 
Dickens,  to  whom  soon  after  this  a treasury- 
clerkship  was  handsomely  given,  on  Dickens’s 
application,  by  Mr.  Stanley  of  7\lderley,  known 
in  and  before  those  Manchester  days,  was  for 
the  present  again  living  with  his  father,  but 
passed  much  time  in  his  brother’s  home ; and 
another  familiar  face  was  that  of  Mr.  Thomas 
Mitton,  who  had  known  him  when  himself  a 
law-clerk  in  Lincoln’s-inn,  through  whom  there 
was  introduction  of  the  relatives  of  a friend  and 
partner,  Mr.  Smithson,  the  gentleman  connected 
with  Yorkshire,  mentioned  in  his  preface  to 
Nickleby,  who  became  very  intimate  in  his  house. 
These,  his  father  and  mother  and  their  two 
younger  sons,  with  members  of  his  wife’s  family, 
and  his  married  sisters  and  their  husbands,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Burnett  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Austin,  arc 
figures  that  all  associate  themselves  prominently 
with  the  days  of  Doughty-street  and  the  cottages 
of  Twickenham  and  Petersham  as  remembered 
by  me  in  the  summers  of  1838  and  1839. 

In  the  former  of  these  years  the  sports  were 
necessarily  (piieter  than  at  Petersham,  where 
extensive  garden-grounds  admitted  ot  much 
athletic  competition,  from  the  more  difficult 
forms  of  which  I in  general  modestly  retired, 
but  where  Dickens  for  the  most  part  held  his 
own  against  even  such  accomplished  athletes  as 
Maclise  and  Mr.  Beard.  Bar-leaping,  bowling, 
and  cpioits,  were  among  the  games  carrietl  on 
with  the  greatest  ardour;  and  in  sustained  energy, 
or  what  is  calletl  keeping  it  up,  Dickens  cer- 
tainly distanced  every  competitor.  Even  the 


DURING  AND  AFTER  NICKLEBY. 


lighter  recreations  of  battledore  and  bagatelle 
were  pursued  with  relentless  activity ; and  at 
such  amusements  as  the  Petersham  races,  in 
those  days  rather  celebrated,  and  which  he 
visited  daily  while  they  lasted,  he  worked  much 
harder  himself  than  the  running  horses  did. 

What  else  his  letters  of  these  years  enable  me 
to  recall  that  could  possess  any  interest  now, 
may  be  told  in  a dozen  sentences.  He  wrote  a 
farce  by  way  of  helping  the  Covent-garden 
manager  which  the  actors  could  not  agree  about, 
and  which  he  turned  afterwards  into  a story 
called  the  Lamplighter.  He  read  the  piece  at 
the  theatre,  before  the  same  stage  manager  to 
whom  he  had  written  to  request  a very  different 
audience  in  the  same  green-room  a few  years 
before ; and  Dickens  could  not  but  fancy  that 
into  j\Ir.  Bartley’s  face,  as  he  listened  to  the 
humorous  reading,  there  crept  some  strange 
bewildered  half  consciousness  that  in  the  famous 
writer  he  saw  again  the  youthful  would-be  actor. 
He  entered  his  name  among  the  students  at  the 
inn  of  the  Middle-temple,  though  he  did  not  eat 
dinners  there  until  many  years  later.  We  made 
together  a circuit  of  nearly  all  the  London 
prisons ; and,  in  coming  to  the  prisoners  under 
remand  while  going  over  Newgate,  accompanied 
by  Macready  and  Mr.  Hablot  Browne,  were 
startled  by  a sudden  tragic  cry  of  “ My  God ! 
there’s  Wainewright ! ” In  the  shabby-genteel 
creature,  with  sandy  disordered  hair  and  dirty 
moustache,  who  had  turned  quickly  round  with 
a defiant  stare  at  our  entrance,  looking  at  once 
mean  and  fierce,  and  quite  capable  of  the 
cowardly  murders  he  had  committed,  Macready 
had  been  horrified  to  recognize  a man  familiarly 
known  to  him  in  former  years,  and  at  whose 
table  he  had  dined.  Between  the  completion  of 
Oliver  and  its  publication,  Dickens  went  to  see 
something  of  North  Wales ; and  joining  him  at 
Liverpool,  I returned  with  him.  Soon  after  his 
arrival  he  had  pleasant  communication  with 
Lockhart,  dining  with  him  at  Cruikshank’s  a 
little  later;  and  this  was  the  prelude  to  a 
Quarterly  review  of  Oliver  by  Mr.  Ford,  written 
at  the  instance  of  Lockhart  but  without  the 
raciness  he  would  have  put  into  it,  in  which 
amends  were  made  for  previous  less  favourable 
notice  in  that  review.  Dickens  had  not  how- 
ever waited  for  this  to  express  publicly  his  hearty 
sympathy  with  Lockhart’s  handling  of  some 
passages  in  his  admirable  that  had 

drawn  down  upon  him  the  wrath  of  the  Ballan- 
tynes.  This  he  did  in  the  Exanimer ; where 
also  I find  him  noticing  a book  by  Thomas 
Hood  : “ rather  poor,  but  I have  not  said  so, 
because  Hood  is  too,  and  ill  besides.”  In  the 


.51 


course  of  the  year  he  was  taken  into  Devonshire 
to  select  a home  for  his  father,  on  the  removal 
of  the  latter  (who  had  long  given  up  his  report- 
ing duties)  from  his  London  residence  ; and  this 
he  found  in  a cottage  at  Alphington,  near  Exeter, 
where  he  placed  the  elder  Dickens  with  his  wife 
and  their  youngest  son.  The  same  year  closed 
Macready’s  Covent-garden  management ; and  at 
the  dinner  to  the  retiring  manager,  when  the 
Duke  of  Cambridge  took  the  chair,  Dickens 
spoke  with  that  wonderful  instinct  of  knowing 
what  to  abstain  from  saying  as  well  as  what  to 
say,  which  made  his  after-dinner  speeches  unique. 
Nor  should  mention  be  omitted  of  the  Shake- 
speare-society,  now  diligently  attended,  of  which 
Procter,  Talfourd,  IMacready,  Thackeray,  Henry 
Davison,  Blanchard,  Charles  Knight,  John  Bell, 
Douglas  Jerrold,  Maclise,  Stanfield,  George 
Cattermole,  Charles  and  Tom  Landseer,  P’rank 
Stone,  and  other  old  friends  were  members, 
and  where,  out  of  much  enjoyment  and  many 
disputings,  there  arose,  from  Dickens  and  all  of 
us,  plenty  of  after-dinner  oratory.  The  closing 
months  of  this  year  of  1839  had  special  interest 
for  him.  At  the  end  of  October  another  daughter 
was  born  to  him,  who  bears  the  name  of  that 
dear  friend  of  his  and  mine,  Macready,  whom 
he  asked  to  be  her  godfather ; and  before  the 
close  of  the  year  he  had  moved  out  of  Doughty- 
street  into  Devonshire-terrace,  a handsome  house 
with  a garden  of  considerable  size,  shut  out  from 
the  New-road  by  a high  brick  wall  facing  the 
York  gate  into  Regent’s-park.  These  various 
matters,  and  his  attempts  at  the  Barnaby  novel 
on  the  conclusion  of  Niekleby,  are  the  subjects 
of  his  letters  between  October  and  December. 

“Thank  God,  all  goes  famously.  I have 
worked  at  Barnaby  all  day,  and  moreover  seen 
a beautiful  (and  reasonable)  house  in  Kent- 
terrace,  where  Macready  once  lived,  but  larger 
than  his.”  Again  (this  having  gone  off) : Bar- 

naby has  suffered  so  much  from  the  house-hunt- 
ing, that  I mustn’t  chop  to-day.”  Then  (for  the 
matter  of  the  Middle  Temple)  “ I return  the 
form.  It’s  the  right  Temple,  I take  for  granted. 
Barnaby  moves,  not  at  racehorse  speed,  but  yet 
as  fast  (I  think)  as  under  these  unsettled  cir- 
cumstances could  possibly  be  expected.”  Or 
again:  “All  well.  Barnaby  has  reached  his 
tenth  page.  I have  just  turned  lazy,  and  have 
passed  into  Christabel,  and  thence  to  Wallen- 
stein." At  last  the  choice  was  made.  “A  house 
of  great  promise  (and  great  premium),  ‘ un- 
deniable ’ situation  and  excessive  splendour,  is 
in  view.  Mitton  is  in  treaty,  and  I am  in 
ecstatic  restlessness.  Kate  wants  to  know 
whether  you  have  any  books  to  send  her,  so 


library 

tl».  ■ 


, TY  of  ILLINOIS 


52 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DLCKENS. 


I)Iease  to  shoot  here  any  literary  rubbish  on 
liand.”  To  these  I will  only  add  a couple  of 
extracts  from  his  letters  while  in  Exeter  arrang- 
ing his  father’s  and  mother’s  new  home.  They 
are  pleasantly  written ; and  the  vividness  with 
which  everything,  once  seen,  was  photographed 
in  his  mind  and  memory,  is  humorously  shown 
in  them. 

“ I took  a little  house  for  them  this  morning  ” 
(5th  March,  1839  : from  the  New  London  Inn), 
‘‘  and  if  they  are  not  pleased  with  it  I shall  be 
grievously  disappointed.  Exactly  a mile  beyond 
the  city  on  the  Plymouth  road  there  are  two 
white  cottages  : one  is  theirs  and  the  other  be- 
longs to  their  landlady.  I almost  forget  the 
number  of  rooms ; but  there  is  an  excellent  par- 
lour with  two  other  rooms  on  the  ground  floor, 
there  is  really  a beautiful  little  room  over  the 
parlour  which  I am  furnishing  as  a drawing- 
room, and  there  is  a splendid  garden.  The 
paint  and  paper  throughout  are  new  and  fresh 
and  cheerful-looking,  the  place  is  clean  beyond 
all  description,  and  the  neighbourhood  I suppose 
the  most  beautiful  in  this  most  beautiful  of  Eng- 
lish counties.  Of  the  landlady,  a Devonshire 
widow  with  whom  I had  the  honour  of  taking 
lunch  to-day,  I must  make  most  especial  men- 
tion. She  is  a fat,  infirm,  splendidly-fresh-faced 
country  dame,  rising  sixty  and  recovering  from 
an  attack  ‘ on  the  nerves  — I thought  they 
never  went  off  the  stones,  but  I find  they  try 
country  air  with  the  best  of  us.  In  the  event  of 
my  mother’s  being  ill  at  any  time,  I really  think 
the  vicinity  of  this  good  dame,  the  very  picture 
of  respectability  and  good  humour,  will  be  the 
greatest  possible  comfort.  Her  furniture  and 
domestic  arrangements  are  a capital  picture,  but 
that  I reserve  till  I see  you,  when  I anticipate 
a hearty  laugh.  She  bears  the  highest  character 
with  the  bankers  and  the  clergyman  (who  for- 
merly lived  in  my  cottage  himself),  and  is  a 
kind-hearted  worthy  capital  specimen  of  the  sort 
of  life,  or  I have  no  eye  for  the  real  and  no  idea 
of  finding  it  out. 

“ This  good  lady’s  brother  and  his  wife  live  in 
the  next  nearest  cottage,  and  the  brother  trans- 
acts the  good  lady’s  business,  the  nerves  not 
admitting  of  her  transacting  it  herself,  although 
they  leave  her  in  her  debilitated  state  something 
sharper  than  the  finest  lancet.  Now  the  brother, 
having  coughed  all  night  till  he  coughed  himself 
into  such  a perspiration  that  you  might  have 
‘ wringed  his  hair,’  according  to  the  asseveration 
of  eye  witnesses,  his  wife  was  sent  for  to  ne- 
gociate  with  me ; and  if  you  could  have  seen  me 
sitting  in  the  kitchen  with  the  two  old  women, 
endeavouring  to  make  them  comprehend  that  1 


had  no  evil  intentions  or  covert  designs,  and 
that  I had  come  down  all  that  way  to  take  some 
cottage  and  had  happened  to  walk  down  that 
road  and  see  that  particular  one,  you  would 
never  have  forgotten  it.  Then,  to  see  the  ser- 
vant girl  run  backwards  and  forwards  to  the  sick 
man,  and  when  the  sick  man  had  signed  one 
agreement  which  I drew  up,  and  the  old  woman 
instantly  put  away  in  a disused  tea-caddy,  to  see 
the  trouble  and  the  number  of  messages  it  took 
before  the  sick  man  could  be  brought  to  sign 
another  (a  duplicate)  that  we  might  have  one 
apiece,  was  one  of  the  richest  scraps  of  genuine 
drollery  I ever  saw  in  all  my  days.  How,  when 
the  business  was  over,  we  became  conversa- 
tional ; how  I was  facetious,  and  at  the  same 
time  virtuous  and  domestic ; how  I drank  toasts 
in  the  beer,  and  stated  on  interrogatory  that  I 
was  a married  man  and  the  father  of  two  blessed 
infants  ; how  the  ladies  marvelled  thereat ; how 
one  of  the  ladies,  having  been  in  London, 
enquired  where  I lived,  and,  being  told,  re- 
membered that  Doughty-street  and  the  Found- 
ling-hospital were  in  the  Old-Kent-road,  which 
I didn’t  contradict — all  this  and  a great  deal 
more  must  make  us  laugh  when  I return,  as  it 
makes  me  laugh  now  to  think  of.  Of  my  sub- 
sequent visit  to  the  upholsterer  recommended 
by  the  landlady ; of  the  absence  of  the  uphol- 
sterer’s wife,  and  the  timidity  of  the  upholsterer 
fearful  of  acting  in  her  absence ; of  my  sitting 
behind  a high  desk  in  a little  dark  shop,  calling 
over  the  articles  in  requisition  and  checking  off 
the  prices  as  the  upholsterer  exhibited  the  goods 
and  called  them  out ; of  my  coming  over  the 
upholsterer’s  daughter  with  many  virtuous  en- 
dearments, to  propitiate  the  establishment  and 
reduce  the  bill ; of  these  matters  I say  nothing, 
either,for  the  same  reason  as  that  just  mentioned. 
The  discovery  of  the  cottage  I seriously  regard  as 
a blessing  (not  to  speak  it  profanely)  upon  our 
efforts  in  this  cause.  I had  heard  nothing  from 
the  bank,  and  walked  straight  there,  by  some 
strange  impulse,  directly  after  breakfast.  I am 
sure  they  may  be  happy  there  ; for  if  I were 
older,  and  my  course  of  activity  were  run,  I am 
sure  L could,  with  God’s  blessing,  for  many  ami 
many  a year.”  .... 

“The  theatre  is  open  here,  and  Charles  Kean 
is  to-night  playing  for  his  last  night.  If  it  had 
been  the  ‘ rig’lar  ’ drama  I should  have  gone, 
but  I was  afraid  Sir  Giles  Overreach  might  upset 
me,  so  I stayed  away.  My  quarters  arc  ex- 
cellent, and  the  head  waiter  is  sue//  a waiter ! 
Knowles  (not  Sheridan  Knowles,  but  Knowles 
of  the  Cheetham-hill-road)  is  an  ass  to  him. 
'I'his  sounds  bold,  but  truth  is  stranger  than 


7VA  /F  LITERARY  PROJECT. 


53 


fiction.  By  the  bye,  not  the  least  comical  thing 
that  has  occurred  was  the  visit*of  the  upholsterer 
(with  some  further  calculations)  since  I began 
this  letter.  I think  they  took  me  here  at  the 
New-London  for  the  Wonderful  Being  I am; 
they  were  amazingly  sedulous  ; and  no  doubt 
they  looked  for  my  being  visited  by  the  nobility 
and  gentry  of  the  neighbourhood.  My  first  and 
only  visitor  came  to-night : A ruddy-faced  man 
in  faded  black,  with  extracts  from  a feather-bed 
all  over  him  ; an  extraordinary  and  quite  mira- 
culously dirty  face  ; a thick  stick  ; and  the  per- 
sonal appearance  altogether  of  an  amiable  bailiff 
in  a green  old  age.  I have  not  seen  the  proper 
waiter  since,  and  more  tlian  suspect  I shall  not 
recover  this  blow.  He  was  announced  (by  the 
waiter)  as  a ‘ person.’  I expect  my  bill  every 
minute 

“ The  waiter  is  laughing  outside  the  door  with 
another  waiter — this  is  the  latest  intelligence  of 
my  condition.” 


VI. 

NEW  LITERARY  PROJECT. 

1839. 

HE  time  was  now  come  for  him  seri- 
ously to  busy  himself  with  a succes- 
sor to  Pickwick  and  Nickkby,  which 
he  had  not  however  waited  thus  Ion? 

. O 

before  turning  over  thoroughly  in 
his  mind.  Nickleby's  success  had  so  far 
outgone  even  the  expectation  raised  by 
Picku’ick's,  that,  without  some  handsome 
practical  admission  of  this  fact  at  the  close,  its 
publishers  could  hardly  hope  to  retain  him.  This 
had  been  frequently  discussed  by  us,  and  was 
well  understood.  But,  apart  from  the  question 
of  his  resuming  with  them  at  all,  he  had  per- 
suaded himself  it  might  be  unsafe  to  resume  in 
the  old  way,  believing  the  public  likely  to  tire 
of  the  same  twenty  numbers  over  again.  There 
was  also  another  and  more  sufficient  reason  for 
change,  which  naturally  had  great  weight  with 
him  ; and  this  was  the  hope,  that,  by  invention 
of  a new  mode  as  well  as  kind  of  serial  publica- 
tion, he  might  be  able  for  a time  to  discontinue 
the  writing  of  a long  story  with  all  its  strain  on 
his  fancy,  or  in  any  case  to  shorten  and  vary  the 
length  of  the  stories  written  by  himself,  and  per- 
haps ultimately  to  retain  all  the  profits  of  a con- 
tinuous publication,  without  necessarily  himself 
contributing  every  line  that  was  to  be  written  for 
it.  These  considerations  had  been  discussed  still 
Life  of  Charles  Dickens,  5. 


more  anxiously;  and  for  several  months  some 
such  project  had  been  taking  form  in  his 
thoughts. 

While  he  was  at  Petersham  (July  1839)  he 
thus  wrote  to  me.  “ 1 have  been  thinking  that 
subject  over.  Indeed  I have  been  doing  so  to 
the  great  stoppage  of  Nickleby  and  the  great 
worrying  and  fidgetting  of  myself.  I have  been 
thinking  that  if  Chapman  and  Hall  were  to  admit 
you  into  their  confidence  with  respect  to  what 
they  mean  to  do  at  the  conclusion  of  Nickleby, 
without  admitting  me,  it  would  help  us  very 
much.  You  know  that  I am  well-disposed  to- 
wards them,  and  that  if  they  do  something  hand- 
some, even  handsomer  perhaps  than  they  dreamt 
of  doing,  they  will  find  it  their  interest,  and  will 
find  me  tractable.  You  know  also  that  I have 
had  straightforward  offers  from  responsible  men 
to  publish  anything  for  me  at  a per-centage  on 
the  profits,  and  take  all  the  risk ; but  that  I am 
unwilling  to  leave  them,  and  have  declared  to 
you  that  if  they  behave  with  liberality  to  me  I 
will  not  on  any  consideration,  although  to  a 
certain  extent  I certainly  and  surely  must  gain 
by  it.  Knowing  all  this,  I feel  sure  that  if  you 
were  to  put  before  them  the  glories  of  our 
new  project,  and,  reminding  them  that  when 
Barnaby  is  published  I am  clear  of  all  engage- 
ments, were  to  tell  them  that  if  they  wish  to 
secure  me  and  perpetuate  our  connection  Now 
is  the  time  for  them  to  step  gallantly  forward 
and  make  such  proposals  as  will  produce  that 
result — I feel  quite  sure  that  if  this  should  be 
done  by  you,  as  you  only  can  do  it,  the  result 
will  be  of  the  most  vital  importance  to  me  and 
mine,  and  that  a great  deal  may  be  effected, 
thus,  to  recompense  your  friend  for  very  small 
profits  and  very  large  work  as  yet.  I shall  see 
you,  please  God,  on  Tuesday  night ; and  if 
they  wait  upon  you  on  Wednesday,  I shall  re- 
main in  town  until  that  evening.” 

They  came ; and  the  tenor  of  the  interview 
was  so  favourable  that  I wished  him  to  put  in 
writing  what  from  time  to  time  had  been  discussed 
in  connection  with  the  new  project.  This  led  to 
the  very  interesting  letter  I shall  now  quote, 
\vritten  also  in  the  same  month  from  Petersham. 

I did  not  remember,  until  I lately  read  it,  that 
the  notion  of  a possible  visit  to  America  had 
been  in  his  thoughts  so  early. 

“ I should  be  willing  to  commence  on  the 
thirty-first  of  March,  1840,  a new  publication 
consisting  entirely  of  original  matter,  of  which 
one  number  price  threepence  should  be  pub- 
lished every  week,  and  of  which  a certain  amount 
of  numbers  should  form  a vol^e,  to  be  pub- 
lished at  regular  intervals./yThe  best  general 

413 


54  the  life  of  CHARLES  DLCKENS. 

idea  of  the  plan  of  the  work  might  be  given 
perhaps  by  reference  to  the  Taller,  the  Spectator, 
and  Goldsmith’s  Bee ; but  it  would  be  far  more 
])opular  both  in  the  subjects  of  which  it  treats 
and  its  mode  of  treating  them. 

I should  propose  to  start,  as  the  Spectator 
does,  with  some  pleasant  fiction  relative  to  the 
origin  of  the  publication  ; to  introduce  a little 
club  or  knot  of  characters  and  to  carry  their  per- 
sonal histories  and  proceedings  through  the  work; 
to  introduce  fresh  characters  constantly  ; to  re- 
introduce Mr.  Pickwick  and  Sam  Weller,  the 
latter  of  whom  might  furnish  an  occasional  com- 
munication with  great  effect ; to  write  amusing 
essays  on  the  various  foibles  of  the  day  as  they 
arise  ; to  take  advantage  of  all  passing  events  ; 
and  to  vary  the  form  of  the  papers  by  throwing 
them  into  sketches,  essays,  tales,  adventures, 
letters  from  imaginary  correspondents  and  so  , 
forth,  so  as  to  diversify  the  contents  as  much  ^ / 
possible.  / / 

In  addition  to  this  general  design,  I may 
add  that  under  particular  heads  I should  strive 
to  establish  certain  features  in  the  work,  which 
should  be  so  many  veins  of  interest  and  amuse- 
ment running  through  the  whole.  Thus  the 
Chapters  on  Chambers  which  I have  long 
thought  and  spoken  of,  might  be  very  well  in- 
corporated with  it ; and  a series  of  papers  has 
occurred  to  me  containing  stories  and  descrip- 
tions of  London  as  it  was  many  years  ago,  as  it 
is  now,  and  as  it  will  be  many  years  hence,  to 
which  I would  give  some  such  title  as  The  Re- 
laxations of  Gog  and  Magog,  dividing  them  into 
portions  like  the  Arabia7i  Nights,  and  supposing 
Cog  and  Magog  to  entertain  each  other  with 
such  narrations  in  Guildhall  all  night  long,  and 
to  break  off  every  morning  at  daylight.  An 
almost  inexhaustible  field  of  fun,  raillery,  and 
interest,  would  be  laid  open  by  pursuing  this 
idea. 

“ I would  also  commence,  and  continue  from 
time  to  time,  a series  of  satirical  papers  purport- 
ing to  be  translated  from  some  Savage  Chroni- 
cles, and  to  describe  the  administration  of  justice 
in  some  country  that  never  existed,  and  record 
(he  proceedings  of  its  wise  men.  The  object  of 
this  series  (which  if  I can  compare  it  witli  any- 
thing would  be  something  between  Gulliver's 
Travels  and  the  Citizen  of  the  World')  would  be 
to  keep  a special  look-out  upon  the  magistrates 
in  town  and  country,  and  never  to  leave  those 
worthies  alone. 

“ The  quantity  of  each  number  that  should  be 
written  by  myself  would  be  a matter  for  discus- 
sion and  arrangement.  Of  course  1 should 
T)ledge  and  bind  myself  upon  that  head.  No- 

body  but  myself  would  ever  pursue  these  ideas, 
but  I must  have  assistance  of  course,  and  there 
must  be  some  contents  of  a different  kind. 
Their  general  nature  might  be  agreed  upon  be- 
forehand, but  I should  stipulate  that  this  assist- 
ance is  chosen  solely  by  me,  and  that  the  con- 
tents of  every  number  are  as  much  under  my  own 
control,  and  subject  to  as  little  interference,  as 
those  of  a number  of  Pickwick  or  Nickleby. 

“ In  order  to  give  fresh  novelty  and  interest 
to  this  undertaking,  I should  be  ready  to  con- 
tract to  go  at  any  specified  time  (say  in  the  mid- 
summer or  autumn  of  the  year,  when  a sufficient 
quantity  of  matter  in  advance  should  have  been 
prepared,  or  earlier  if  it  were  thought  fit)  either 
to  Ireland  or  to  America,  and  to  write  from 
thence  a series  of  papers  descriptive  of  the  places 
and  people  I see,  introducing  local  tales,  tradi- 
tions, and  legends,  something  after  the  plan  of 
Washington  Irving’s  Alhainbra.  I should  wish 
the  republication  of  these  papers  in  a separate 
form,  with  others  to  render  the  subject  complete 
(if  we  should  deem  it  advisable),  to  form  part  of 
the  arrangement  for  the  work  ; and  I should  wish 
the  same  provision  to  be  made  for  the  republica- 
tion of  the  Gog  and  Magog  series,  or  indeed  any 
that  I undertook. 

“ This  is  a very  rough  and  slight  outline  of 
the  project  I have  in  view.  I am  ready  to  talk 
the  matter  over,  to  give  any  further  explanations, 
to  consider  any  suggestions,  or  to  go  into  the 
details  of  the  subject  immediately.  I say  no- 
thing of  the  novelty  of  such  a publication  now- 
a-days  or  its  chances  of  success.  Of  course  I 
think  them  great,  very  great ; indeed,  almost 
beyond  calculation,  or  I should  not  seek  to 
bind  myself  to  anything  so  extensive. 

“ I’he  heads  of  the  terms  upon  which  I should 
be  prepared  to  go  into  the  undertaking  would  be 
— That  I be  made  a proprietor  in  the  work  and 
a sharer  in  the  i)rolits.  That  when  I bind  myself 
to  write  a certain  portion  of  every  number,  I am 
ensured, /t'/-  that  writing  in  every  number,  a cer- 
tain sum  of  money.  That  those  who  assist  me, 
and  contribute  the  remainder  of  every  number, 
shall  be  paid  by  tlie  publishers  immediately  after 
its  appearance,  according  to  a scale  to  be  calcu- 
lated and  agreed  upon,  on  presenting  my  order 
for  the  amount  to  which  they  may  be  respectively 
entitled.  Or,  if  the  publishers  jn-efer  it,  that  they 
agree  to  pay  me  a certain  sum  for  the  whole  of 
every  number,  and  leave  me  to  make  such  ar- 
rangements for  that  part  which  I may  not  write, 
as  I think  best.  Of  course  I should  require  that 
for  these  j)ayments,  or  any  other  outlay  connected 
with  the  work,  1 am  not  held  accountable  in  any 
way  ; and  that  no  portion  of  them  is  to  be  con- 

T 


OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


sidered  as  received  by  me  on  account  of  the  pro- 
fits. 1 need  not  add  that  some  arrangement 
would  liave  to  be  made,  if  1 undertake  my  Travels, 
relative  to  the  expenses  of  travelling. 

“ Now  I want  our  publishing  friends  to  take 
these  things  into  consideration,  and  to  give  me 
the  views  and  proposals  they  would  be  disposed 
to  entertain  when  they  have  maturely  considered 
the  matter.” 

The  result  of  their  consideration  was  on  the 
whole  satisfactory.  An  additional  fifteen  hundred 
pounds  was  to  be  paid  at  the  close  of  Nicklcby, 
the  new  adventure  was  to  be  undertaken,  and 
Cattermole  was  to  be  joined  with  Browne  as  its 
illustrator.  Nor  was  its  plan  much  modified  be- 
fore starting,  though  it  was  felt  by  us  all  that,  for 
the  opening  numbers  at  least,  Dickens  would 
have  to  be  sole  contributor;  and  that,  whatever 
■otherwise  might  be  its  attraction,  or  the  success 
of  the  detached  papers  proposed  by  him,  some 
reinforcement  of  them  from  time  to  time,  by 
means  of  a story  with  his  name  continued  at 
reasonable  if  not  regular  intervals,  would  be  found 
absolutely  necessary.  Without  any  such  planned 
story,  however,  the  work  did  actually  begin ; its 
course  afterwards  being  determined  by  circum- 
stances stronger  than  any  project  he  had  formed. 
The  agreement,  drawn  up  in  contemplation  of  a 
mere  miscellany  of  detached  papers  or  essays, 
and  in  which  no  mention  of  any  story  appeared, 
was  signed  at  the  end  of  March ; and  its  terms 
were  such  as  to  place  him  in  his  only  proper  and 
legitimate  position  in  regard  to  all  such  con- 
tracts, of  being  necessarily  a gainer  in  any  case, 
and,  in  the  event  of  success,  the  greatest  gainer 
of  all  concerned  in  the  undertaking.  All  the  risk 
of  every  kind  was  to  be  undergone  by  the  pub- 
lishers ; and,  as  part  of  the  expenses  to  be  de- 
frayed by  them  of  each  weekly  number,  he  was 
to  receive  fifty  pounds.  Whatever  the  success  or 
failure,  this  was  always  to  be  paid.  The  numbers 
were  then  to  be  accounted  for  separately,  and 
half  the  realized  profits  paid  to  him,  the  other 
half  going  to  the  publishers  ; eadi  number  being 
held  strictly  responsible  for  itself,  and  the  loss 
upon  it,  supposing  any,  not  carried  to  the  general 
account.  The  work  was  to  be  continued  for 
twelve  months  certain,  with  leave  to  the  pub- 
lishers then  to  close  it ; but  if  they  elected  to  go 
on,  he  was  himself  bound  to  the  enterprise  for 
five  years,  and  the  ultimate  copyright  as  well  as 
profit  was  to  be  equally  divided. 

Six  weeks  before  signature  of  this  agreement, 
while  a title  was  still  undetermined,  I had  this 
letter  from  him.  “ I will  dine  with  you.  I 
intended  to  spend  the  evening  in  strict  medita- 
tion (as  I did  last  night) ; but  perhaps  I had 


55 


better  go  out,  lest  all  work  and  no  play  should 
make  me  a dull  boy.  I have  a list  of  titles 
too,  but  the  final  title  I have  determined  on — 
or  something  very  near  it.  I have  a notion  of 
this  old  file  in  the  (jneer  house,  opening  the 
book  by  an  account  of  himself,  and,  among 
other  peculiarities,  of  his  affection  for  an  old 
qugMt  queer-cased  clock;  showing  how  that 
when  they  have  sat  alone  together  in  the  long 
evenings,  he  has  got  accustomed  to  its  voice, 
and  come  to  consider  it  as  the  voice  of  a 
friend ; how  its  striking,  in  the  night,  has 
seemed  like  an  assurance  to  him  that  it  was  still 
a cheerful  watcher  at  his  chamber-door;  and 
how  its  very  face  has  seemed  to  have  something 
of  welcome  in  its  dusty  features,  and  to  relax 
from  its  grimness  when  he  has  looked  at  it  from 
his  chimney-corner.  Then  I mean  to  tell  how 
that  he  has  kept  odd  manuscripts  in  the  old, 
deep,  dark,  silent  closet  where  the  weights  are ; 
and  taken  them  from  thence  to  read  (mixing  up 
his  enjoyments  with  some  notion  of  his  clock) ; 
and  how,  when  the  club  came  to  be  formed, 
they,  by  reason  of  their  punctuality  and  his  re- 
gard for  his  dumb  servant,  took  their  name 
from  it.  And  thus  I shall  call  the  book  either 
Old  Humphrey's  Clock,  or  Master  Humphrey's 
Clock;  beginning  with  a woodcut  of  old  Hum- 
phrey and  his  clock,  and  explaining  the  why 
and  wherefore.  All  Humphrey’s  own  papers  will 
then  be  dated  From  my  clock-side,  and  I have 
divers  thoughts  about  the  best  means  of  intro- 
ducing the  others.  I thought  about  this  all  day 
yesterday  and  all  last  night  till  I went  to  bed. 
I am  sure  I can  make  a good  thing  of  this 
opening,  which  I have  thoroughly  warmed  up 
to  in  consequence.” 

A few  days  later : “ I incline  rather  more  to 
Master  Hunphrcy's  Clock  than  Old  Himphrey' s 
— if  so  be  that  there  is  no  danger  of  the  Pensive 
confounding  master  with  a boy.”  After  two 
days  more  : “ I was  thinking  all  yesterday,  and 
have  begun  at  Master  Humphrey  to-day.”  Then, 
a week  later : “ I have  finished  the  first  num- 
ber, but  have  not  been  able  to  do  more  in  the 
space  than  lead  up  to  the  Giants,  who  are  just 
on  the  scene.” 

VII. 

OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 

1840  AND  1841. 

A DAY  or  two  after  the  date  of  the  last  letter 
quoted,  Dickens  and  his  wife,  with  Maclise 
and  myself,  visited  Landor  in  Bath,  and  it  was 
during  three  happy  days  passed  together  there 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


56 


that  the  fancy  which  was  shortly  to  take  the  form 
of  little  Nell  first  occurred  to  its  author.  But  as 
yet  with  the  intention  only  of  making  out  of  it  a 
tale  of  a few  chapters.  On  the  ist  of  March  we 
returned  from  Bath ; and  on  the  4th  I had  this 
letter ; “ If  you  can  manage  to  give  me  a call  in  the 
course  of  the  day  or  evening,  I wish  you  would. 
I am  laboriously  turning  over  in  my  mind  how 
I can  best  effect  the  improvement  we  spoke  of 
last  night,  which  I will  certainly  make  by  hook 
or  by  crook,  and  which  I would  like  you  to  see 
before  it  goes  finally  to  the  printer’s.  I have 
determined  not  to  put  that  witch-story  into 
number  3,  for  I am  by  no  means  satisfied  of  the 
effect  of  its  contrast  with  Humphrey.  I think 
of  lengthening  Humphrey,  finishing  the  descrip- 
tion of  the  society,  and  closing  with  the  little 
child-story,  which  is  sure  to  be  effective,  espe- 
cially after  the  old  man’s  quiet  way.”  Then 
there  came  hard  upon  this : “ What  do  you 
think  of  the  following  double  title  for  the  begin- 
ning of  that  little  tale  ? ‘ Personal  Adven- 

tures OF  Master  Humphrey  : The  Old  Cu- 
riosity Shop.'  I have  thought  of  Master  Hum- 
phrey's Tale,  Master  Humphrey' s Narrative,  A 
Passage  in  Master  Humphrey' s Life — but  I 
don’t  think  any  does  as  well  as  this.  I have 
also  thought  of  The  Old  Curiosity  Dealer  and 
the  Child  instead  of  The  Old  Curiosity  Shop. 

Perpend.  Topping  waits.” And  thus  was 

taking  gradual  form,  with  less  direct  conscious- 
ness of  design  on  his  own  part  than  I can 
remember  in  any  other  instance  throughout  his 
career,  a story  which  was  to  add  largely  to  his 
popularity,  more  than  any  other  of  his  works  to 
make  the  bond  between  himself  and  his  readers 
one  of  personal  attachment,  and  very  widely  to 
increase  the  sense  entertained  of  his  powers  as 
a pathetic  as  well  as  humorous  writer. 

He  had  not  written  more  than  two  or  three 
chapters,  when  the  capability  of  the  subject  for 
more  extended  treatment  than  he  had  at  first 
proposed  to  give  to  it  pressed  itself  upon  him, 
and  he  resolved  to  throw  everything  else  aside, 
devoting  himself  to  the  one  story  only.  There 
were  other  strong  reasons  for  this.  Of  the  first 
number  of  the  Clock  nearly  seventy  thousand 
were  sold ; but  with  the  discovery  that  there 
was  no  continuous  tale  the  orders  at  once  di- 
minished, and  a change  must  have  been  made 
even  if  the  material  and  means  for  it  had  not 
been  ready.  There  had  been  an  interval  of 
three  numbers  between  the  first  and  second 
chapters,  which  the  society  of  Mr.  Pickwick  and 
the  two  Wellers  made  pleasant  enough;  but 
after  the  introduction  of  Uick  Swiveller  there 
were  three  consecutive  chapters;  and  in  the 


continued  progress  of  the  tale  to  its  close  there 
were  only  two  more  breaks,  one  between  the 
fourth  and  fifth  chapters  and  one  between  the 
eighth  and  ninth,  pardonable  and  enjoyable  now 
for  the  sake  of  Sam  and  his  father.  The  re- 
introduction  of  those  old  favourites,  it  will  have 
been  seen,  formed  part  of  his  original  plan ; of 
his  abandonment  of  which  his  own  description 
may  be  added,  from  his  preface  to  the  collected 
edition.  “ The  first  chapter  of  this  tale  ap- 

peared in  the  fourth  number  of  Master  Hum- 
phrey's Clock,  when  I had  already  been  made 
uneasy  by  the  desultory  character  of  that  work, 
and  when,  I believe,  my  readers  had  thoroughly 
participated  in  the  feeling.  The  commence- 
ment of  a story  was  a great  satisfaction  to  me, 
and  I had  reason  to  believe  that  my  readers 
participated  in  this  feeling  too.  Hence,  being 
pledged  to  some  interruptions  and  some  pursuit 
of  the  original  design,  I set  cheerfully  about  dis- 
entangling myself  from  those  impediments  as 
fast  as  I could ; and,  this  done,  from  that  time 
until  its  completion  The  Old  Curiosity  Shop  was 
written  and  published  from  week  to  week,  in 
weekly  parts.” 

He  had  very  early  himself  become  greatly 
taken  with  it.  “ I am  very  glad  indeed,”  he 
wrote  to  me  after  the  first  half-dozen  chapters, 
“ that  you  think  so  w'ell  of  the  Curiosity  Shop, 
and  especially  that  what  may  be  got  out  of  Dick 
strikes  you.  I 7ncan  to  make  much  of  him.  I 
feel  the  story  extremely  myself,  which  I take  to 
be  a good  sign ; and  am  already  warmly  inter- 
ested in  it.  I shall  run  it  on  now  for  four  whole 
numbers  together,  to  give  it  a fair  chance.” 
Every  step  lightened  the  road,  as  it  became 
more  and  more  real  with  each  character  that 
appeared  in  it ; and  I still  recall  the  glee  with 
which  he  told  me  what  he  intended  to  do  not 
only  with  Dick  Swiveller,  but  with  Septimus 
Brass,  changed  afterwards  to  Sampson.  Un- 
doubtedly, how'ever,  Dick  was  his  favourite. 
“ Dick’s  behaviour  in  the  matter  of  Miss 
Wackles  will,  I hope,  give  you  satisfaction,”  is 
the  remark  of  another  of  his  letters.  “ I cannot 
yet  discover  that  his  aunt  has  any  belief  in  him, 
or  is  in  the  least  degree  likely  to  send  him  a re- 
mittance, so  that  he  will  probably  continue  to 
be  the  sport  of  destiny.”  His  difficulties  were 
the  quickly  recurring  times  of  publication,  the 
confined  space  in  each  number  that  yet  had  to 
contribute  its  individual  effect,  and  (from  the 
suddenness  with  which  he  had  begun)  tlie  im- 
possibility of  getting  in  advance.  “ I w’as 
obliged  to  cranq)  most  dreadfully  what  I 
thought  a pretty  idea  in  the  last  chapter.  1 
hadn’t  room  to  turn  to  this  or  a similar  effect 


OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


his  complaints  are  frequent,  and  of  the  vexa- 
tions named  it  was  by  far  the  worst.  But  he 
steadily  bore  up  against  all,  and  made  a triumph 
of  the  little  story. 

To  help  his  work  he  went  twice  to  Broad- 
stairs,  in  June  and  in  September;  and  at  his 
first  visit  (17th  June)  thus  wrote:  “It’s  now 
four  o’clock  and  I have  been  at  work  since  half- 
past eight.  I have  really  dried  myself  up  into 
a condition  which  would  almost  justify  me  in 
pitching  oft'  the  cliff,  head  first — but  I must  get 
richer  before  I indulge  in  a crowning  luxury. 
Number  15,  which  I began  to-day,  I anticipate 
great  things  from.  There  is  a description  of 
getting  gradually  out  of  town,  and  passing 
through  neighbourhoods  of  distinct  and  various 
characters,  with  which,  if  I had  read  it  as  any- 
body else’s  writing,  I think  I should  have  been 
very  much  struck.  The  child  and  the  old  man 
are  on  their  journey  of  course,  and  the  subject 
is  a very  pretty  one.”  Between  the  two  Broad- 
stairs  visits  he  informed  me  : “ I intended  call- 
ing on  you  this  morning  on  my  way  back  from 
Bevis-marks,  whither  I went  to  look  at  a house 
for  Sampson  Brass.  But  I got  mingled  up  in  a 
kind  of  social  paste  with  the  Jews  of  Hounds- 
ditch,  and  roamed  about  among  them  till  I 
•came  out  in  Moorfields,  quite  unexpectedly. 
So  I got  into  a cab,  and  came  home  again,  very 
tired,  by  way  of  the  City-road.”  At  the  open- 
ing of  September  he  was  again  at  the  little 
watering  place.  The  residence  he  most  desired 
there.  Fort-house,  stood  prominently  at  the  top 
of  a breezy  hill  on  the  road  to  Kingsgate,  with 
a corn-field  between  it  and  the  sea,  and  this  in 
many  subsequent  years  he  always  occupied  ; 
but  he  was  fain  to  be  content,  as  yet,  with 
Lawn-house,  a smaller  villa  between  the  hill 
and  the  corn-field,  from  which  he  now  wrote  of 
his  attentions  to  Mr.  Sampson  Brass’s  sister. 
■“  I have  been  at  work  of  course  ” (2nd  Septem- 
ber) “ and  have  just  finished  a number.  I have 
effected  a reform  by  virtue  of  which  we  break- 
fast at  a quarter  before  eight,  so  that  I get  to 
work  at  half-past,  and  am  commonly  free  by  one 
o’clock  or  so,  which  is  a great  happiness.  Dick 
is  now  Sampson’s  clerk,  and  I have  touched 
Miss  Brass  in  Number  25,  lightly,  but  effec- 
tively I hope.” 

At  this  point  it  became  necessary  to  close  the 
first  volume  of  the  which  was  issued 

accordingly  with  a dedication  to  Samuel  Rogers, 
and  a preface  to  which  allusion  will  be  made 
hereafter.  “ I have  opened  the  second  volume,” 
he  wTOte  on  the  9th  of  September,  “with  Kit; 
and  I saw  this  morning  looking  out  at  the  sea, 
as  if  a veil  had  been  lifted  up,  an  affecting 


57 


thing  that  I can  do  with  him  bye  and  bye. 
Nous  verrons.”  “ I am  glad  you  like  that  Kit 
number,”  he  wrote  twelve  days  later,  “ I thought 
you  would.  I have  altered  that  about  the 
opera-going.  Of  course  I had  no  intention  to 
delude  the  many-headed  into  a false  belief  con- 
cerning opera  nights,  but  merely  to  specify  a 
class  of  senators.  I needn’t  have  done  it,  how- 
ever, for  God  knows  they’re  pretty  well  all 
alike.”  This  referred  to  an  objection  made  by 
me  to  something  he  had  \yritten  of  “ opera- 
going senators  on  Wednesday  nights  ;”  and,  of 
another  change  made  in  compliance  with  some 
other  objection,  he  wrote  on  the  4th  of  October  : 
“ You  will  receive  the  proof  herewith.  I have 
altered  it.  You  must  let  it  stand  now.  I really 
think  the  dead  mankind  a million  fathoms  deep, 
the  best  thing  in  the  sentence.  I have  a notion 
of  the  dreadful  silence  down  there,  and  of  the 
stars  shining  through  upon  their  drowned  eyes 
— the  fruit,  let  me  tell  you,  of  a solitary  walk  by 
starlight  on  the  cliffs.  As  to  the  child-image  I 
have  made  a note  of  it  for  alteration.  In  num- 
ber thirty  there  will  be  some  cutting  needed,  I 
think.  I have,  however,  something  in  my  eye 
near  the  beginning  which  I can  easily  take  out. 
You  will  recognize  a description  of  the  road  we 
travelled  between  Birmingham  and  Wolver- 
hampton : but  I had  conceived  it  so  well  in  my 
mind  that  the  execution  doesn’t  please  me  quite 
as  well  as  I expected.  I shall  be  curious  to 
know  whether  you  think  there’s  anything  in  the 
notion  of  the  man  and  his  furnace-fire.  It 
would  have  been  a good  thing  to  have  opened 
a new  story  with,  I have  been  thinking  since.” 

In  the  middle  of  October  he  returned  to 
town,  and  by  the  end  of  the  month  he  had  so 
far  advanced  that  the  close  of  the  story  began 
to  be  not  far  distant.  “Tell  me  what  you 
think,”  he  had  written  just  before  his  return, 
“ of  36  and  37  ? The  way  is  clear  for  Kit  now, 
and  for  a great  effect  at  the  last  with  the  Mar- 
chioness.” The  last  allusion  I could  not  in  the 
least  understand,  until  I found,  in  the  numbers 
just  sent  me,  those  exquisite  chapters  of  the 
tale,  the  57th  and  58th,  in  which  Dick  Swiveller' 
realizes  his  threat  to  Miss  Wackles,  discovers 
the  small  creature  whom  his  destiny  is  expressly 
saving  up  for  him,  dubs  her  Marchioness,  and 
teaches  her  the  delights  of  hot  purl  and  crib- 
bage.  This  is  comedy  of  the  purest  kind ; its 
great  charm  being  the  good-hearted  fellow’s 
kindness  to  the  poor  desolate  child  hiding  itself 
under  cover  of  what  seems  only  mirth  and  fun. 
Altogether,  and  because  of  rather  than  in  spite 
of  his  weaknesses,  Dick  is  a captivating  person. 
His  gaiety  and  good  humour  survive  such  accu- 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


S8 


\ 


mulations  of  “ staggerers,”  he  makes  such  dis- 
coveries of  the  “ rosy  ” in  the  very  smallest  of 
drinks,  and  becomes  himself  by  his  solacements 
of  verse  such  a “ perpetual  grand  Ai)ollo,”  that 
his  failings  are  all  forgiven  ; and  hearts  reso- 
lutely shut  against  victims  of  destiny  in  general, 
open  themselves  freely  to  Dick  Swiveller. 

At  the  opening  of  November,  there  seems  to 
have  been  a wish  on  Maclise’s  part  to  try  his 
hand  at  an  illustration  for  the  story ; but  I do 
not  remember  .that  it  bore  other  fruit  than  a 
very  pleasant  day  at  Jack  Straw’ s-castle,  where 
Dickens  read  one  of  the  later  numbers  to  us. 
“ Maclise  and  myself  (alone  in  the  carriage),” 
he  wrote,  “will  be  with  you  at  two  exactly.  We 
propose  driving  out  to  Hampstead  and  walking 
there,  if  it  don’t  rain  in  buckets’-full.  I shan’t 
send  Bradburys’  the  MS  of  next  number  till  to- 
morrow, for  it  contains  the  shadow  of  the  num- 
ber after  that,  and  I want  to  read  it  to  Mac,  as, 
if  he  likes  the  subject,  it  will  furnish  him  with 
one,  I think.  You  can’t  imagine  (gravely  I 
write  and  speak)  how  exhausted  I am  to-day 
with  yesterday’s  labours.  I went  to  bed  last 
night  utterly  dispirited  and  done  up.  All  night 
I have  been  pursued  by  the  child  ; and  this 
morning  I am  unrefreshed  and  miserable.  I 
don’t  know  what  to  do  with  myself.  ....  I 
think  the  close  of  the  story  will  be  great.”  Con- 
nected with  the  same  design  on  Maclise’s  part, 
there  was  a subsequent  reading  at  my  house  of 
the  number  shadowed  forth  by  what  had  been 
read  at  Hampstead.  “ I will  bring  the  MS,” 
he  writes  on  the  12th  of  November,  “and,  for 
Mac’s  information  if  needful,  the  number  before 
it.  I have  only  this  moment  put  the  finishing 
touch  to  it.  The  difficulty  has  been  tremen- 
dous— the  anguish  unspeakable.  I didn’t  say 
six.  Therefore  dine  at  half-past  five  like  a 
Christian.  I shall  bring  Mac  at  that  hour.” 

He  had  sent  me,  shortly  before,  the  chapters 
in  which  the  Marchioness  nurses  Dick  in  his 
fever,  and  puts  his  favourite  philosophy  to  the 
hard  test  of  asking  him  whether  he  has  ever  put 
l^ieces  of  orange-peel  into  cold  water  and  made 
believe  it  was  wine.  “ If  you  make  believe  very 
much  it’s  quite  nice  ; but  if  you  don’t,  you  know, 
it  hasn’t  much  flavour : ” so  it  stood  originally, 
and  to  the  latter  word  in  the  little  creature’s 
mouth  objection  seems  to  have  been  made. 
Replying  (on  the  i6th  of  December)  he  writes: 
“ ‘ If  you  make  believe  very  much  it’s  quite  nice ; 
but  if  you  don’t,  you  know,  it  seems  as  if  it 
would  bear  a little  more  seasoning,  certainly.’  I 
think  that’s  better.  Flavour  is  a common  word 
in  cookery  and  among  cooks,  and  so  I used  it. 
The  part  you  cut  out  in  the  other  number,  which 


was  sent  me  this  morning,  I had  j)ut  in  with  a 
view  to  Quilp’s  last  appearance  on  any  stage, 
which  is  casting  its  shadow  upon  my  mind ; but 
it  will  come  well  enough  without  such  a prepara- 
tion, so  I made  no  change.  I mean  to  shirk 
Sir  Robert  Inglis,  and  work  to-night.  I have 
been  solemnly  revolving  the  general  story  all 
this  morning.  The  forty-fifth  number  will  cer- 
tainly be  the  close.  Perhaps  this  forty-first  which 
I am  now  at  work  on,  had  better  contain  the 
announcement  of  Barnahy  1 I am  glad  you  like 
Dick  and  the  Marchioness  in  that  sixty-fourth 
chapter — I thought  you  would.” 

Fast  shortening  as  the  life  of  little  Nell  was 
now,  the  dying  year  might  have  seen  it  pass 
away ; but  I never  knew  him  wind  up  any  tale 
with  such  a sorrowful  reluctance  as  this.  He 
caught  at  any  excuse  to  hold  his  hand  from  it, 
and  stretched  to  the  utmost  limit  the  time  left 
to  complete  it  in.  Christmas  interposed  its 
delays  too,  so  that  twelfth-night  had  come  and 
gone  when  I wrote  to  him  in  the  belief  that  he 
was  nearly  done.  “ Done  ! ” he  wrote  back  to 
me  on  hYiday  the  7th,  “done!!!  Why  bless 
you,  I shall  not  be  clone  till  Wednesday  night. 

I only  began  yesterday,  and  this  part  of  the 
story  is  not  to  be  galloped  over,  I can  tell  you. 
I think  it  will  come  famously — but  I am  the 
wretchedest  of  the  wretched.  It  casts  the  most 
horrible  shadow  upon  me,  and  it  is  as  much  as 
I can  do  to  keep  moving  at  all.  I tremble  to 
approach  the  place  a great  deal  more  than  Kit  7 
a great  deal  more  than  Mr.  Garland ; a great 
deal  more  than  the  Single  Gentleman.  I shan’t 
recover  it  for  a long  time.  Nobody  will  miss 
her  like  I shall.  It  is  such  a very  painful  thing 
to  me,  that  I really  cannot  express  my  sorrow. 
Old  wounds  bleed  afresh  when  I only  think  of 
the  way  of  doing  it : what  the  actual  doing  it 
will  be,  God  knows.  I can’t  preach  to  m3'self 
the  schoolmaster’s  consolation,  though  I try. 
Dear  l\Iary  died  yesterday,  when  I think  of 
this  sad  story.  I don’t  know  what  to  say  about 
dining  to-morrow — perhaps  you’ll  send  up  to- 
morrow morning  for  news  ? That’ll  be  the  best 
way.  I have  refused  several  invitations  for  this 
week  and  next,  determining  to  go  nowhere  till 
1 had  done.  I am  afraid  of  disturbing  the  state 
I have  been  trying  to  get  into,  and  having  to 
fetch  it  all  back  again.”  He  had  finished,  all 
but  the  last  chapter,  on  the  Wednesday  named ; 
that  was  the  12th  of  January  ; and  on  the  lol- 
lowing  night  he  read  to  me  the  two  chapiters  of 
Nell’s  death,  the  71st  and  72nd,  with  the  result 
described  in  a letter  of  the  following  Monday, 
the  17th  January,  1841. 

“ I can’t  help  letting  you  know  how  much 


OLD  CURIOSITY  SHOP. 


59 


your  yesterday’s  letter  pleased  me.  I felt  sure 
you  likeil  the  chapters  when  we  read  them  on 
Thursday  night,  but  it  was  a great  dcliglit  to 
have  my  impression  so  strongly  and  heartily 
confirmed.  You  know  how  little  value  I should 
set  on  what  I had  done,  if  all  the  world  cried 
out  that  it  was  good,  and  tliose  whose  good 
opinion  and  approbation  I value  most  were 
silent.  The  assurance  that  this  little  closing  of 
the  scene  touches  and  is  felt  by  you  so  strongly, 
is  better  to  me  than  a thousand  most  sweet 
voices  out  of  doors.  When  I first  began,  j'c’z/r 
valued  suggestion,  to  keep  my  thoughts  upon  this 
ending  of  the  tale,  I resolved  to  try  and  do 
something  which  might  be  read  by  people  about 
whom  Death  had  been,  with  a softened  feeling, 

and  with  consolation After  you  left  last 

night,  I took  my  desk  upstairs ; and  writing 
until  four  o’clock  this  morning,  finished  the  old 
story.  It  makes  me  very  melancholy  to  think 
that  all  these  people  are  lost  to  me  for  ever,  and 
I feel  as  if  I never  could  become  attached  to 
any  new  set  of  characters.”  The  words  printed 
in  italics,  as  underlined  by  himself,  give  me  my 
share  in  the  story  which  had  gone  so  closely  to 
his  heart.  I was  responsible  for  its  tragic  end- 
ing. He  had  not  thought  of  killing  her,  when, 
about  half  way  through,  I asked  him  to  consider 
whether  it  did  not  necessarily  belong  even  to 
his  own  conception,  after  taking  so  mere  a child 
through  such  a tragedy  of  sorrow,  to  lift  her  also 
out  of  the  commonplace  of  ordinary  happy  end- 
ings, so  that  the  gentle  pure  little  figure  and 
form  should  never  change  to  the  fancy.  All  that 
I meant  he  seized  at  once,  and  never  turned 
aside  from  it  again. 

The  published  book  was  an  extraordinary 
success,  and,  in  America  more  especially,  very 
greatly  increased  the  writer’s  fame.  The  pathetic 
vein  it  had  opened  was  perhaps  mainly  the  cause 
of  this,  but  opinion  at  home  continued  still  to 
turn  on  the  old  characteristics ; the  freshness  of 
humour  of  which  the  pathos  was  but  another 
form  or  product,  the  grasp  of  reality  with  which 
character  had  again  been  seized,  the  discern- 
ment of  good  under  its  least  attractive  forms  and 
of  evil  in  its  most  captivating  disguises,  the 
cordial  wisdom  and  sound  heart,  the  enjoyment 
and  fun,  luxuriant  yet  under  proper  control.  No 
falling-off  rvas  found  in  these,  and  I doubt  if  any 
of  his  people  haye  been  more  widely  liked  than 
Dick  Swiveller  and  the  Marchioness.  The  cha- 
racters generally  indeed  work  out  their  share  in 
the  purpose  of  the  tale ; the  extravagances  of 
some  of  them  help  to  intensify  its  meaning;  and 
the  sayings  and  doings  of  the  worst  and  the  best 
alike  have  their  point  and  applicability.  Many 


an  over-suspicious  person  will  find  advantage 
in  remembering  what  a too  liberal  application 
of  Fo.xey’s  principle  of  suspecting  everybody 
brought  Mr.  Brass  to  ; and  many  an  overhasty 
judgment  of  poor  human  nature  will  uncon- 
sciously be  checked,  when  it  is  remembered  that 
Mr.  Nubbles  did  come  back  to  work  out  that 
shilling. 

But  the  main  idea  and  chief  figure  of  the  piece 
constitute  its  interest  for  most  people,  and  give 
it  rank  upon  the  whole  with  the  most  attractive 
productions  of  English  fiction.  I am  not  ac- 
quainted with  any  story  in  the  language  more 
adapted  to  strengthen  in  the  heart  what  most 
needs  help  and  encouragement,  to  sustain  kindly 
and  innocent  impulses,  to  awaken  everywhere 
the  sleeping  germs  of  good.  It  includes  ne- 
cessarily much  pain,  much  uninterrupted  sad- 
ness ; but  the  brightness  and  the  sunshine  are 
not  lost  in  the  gloom.  The  humour  is  so  bene- 
volent ; the  view  of  errors  that  have  no  depravity 
in  them  is  so  indulgent ; the  quiet  courage  under 
calamity,  the  purity  that  nothing  impure  can  soil, 
are  so  full  of  tender  teaching.  Its  effect  as  a 
mere  piece  of  art,  too,  considering  the  circum- 
stances in  which  I have  shown  it  to  be  written, 
I think  noteworthy.  It  began  with  a plan  for 
but  a short  half  dozen  chapters ; it  grew  into  a 
full-proportioned  story  under  the  warmth  of 
the  feeling  it  had  inspired  its  writer  with;  its 
very  incidents  created  a necessity  at  first  not 
seen  ; and  it  was  carried  to  a close  only  con- 
templated after  a full  half  of  it  had  been  written. 
Yet,  from  the  opening  of  the  tale  to  that  un- 
designed ending  ; from  the  image  of  little  Nell 
asleep  amid  the  quaint  grotesque  figures  of  the 
old  curiosity  warehouse,  to  that  other  final  sleep 
she  takes  among  the  grim  forms  and  carvings  of 
the  old  church  aisle  ; the  main  purpose  seems  to 
be  always  present.  The  characters  and  incidents 
that  at  first  appear  most  foreign  to  it,  are  found 
to  have  had  with  it  a close  relation.  The 
hideous  lumber  and  rottenness  that  surround 
the  child  in  her  grandfather’s  home,  take  shape 
again  in  Quilp  and  his  filthy  gang.  In  the  first 
still  picture  of  Nell’s  innocence  in  the  midst  of 
strange  and  alien  forms,  we  have  the  forecast  of 
her  after  wanderings,  her  patient  miseries,  her 
sad  maturity  of  experience  before  its  time.  With- 
out the  show-people  and  their  blended  fictions 
and  realities,  their  wax-works,  dwarfs,  giants, 
and  performing  dogs,  the  picture  would  have 
wanted  some  part  of  its  significance.  Nor  could 
the  genius  of  Hogarth  himself  have  given  it 
higher  expression  than  in  the  scenes  by  the  cot- 
tage door,  the  furnace  fire,  and  the  burial  place 
of  the  old  church,  over  whose  tombs  and  grave- 


6o 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DLCKENS. 


stones  hang  the  puppets  of  Mr.  Punch’s  show 
while  the  exhibitors  are  mending  and  repairing 
them.  And  when,  at  last,  Nell  sits  within  the 
quiet  old  church  where  all  her  wanderings  end, 
and  gazes  on  those  silent  monumental  groups  of 
warriors  with  helmets,  swords,  and  gauntlets 
wasting  away  around  them ; the  associations 
among  which  her  life  had  opened  seem  to  have 
come  crowding  on  the  scene  again,  to  be  pre- 
sent at  its  close.  But,  stripped  of  their  strange- 
ness ; deepened  into  solemn  shapes  by  the 
suffering  she  has  undergone;  gently  fusing  every 
feeling  of  a life  past  into  hopeful  and  familiar 
anticipation  of  a life  to  come  ; and  already  im- 
perceptibly lifting  her,  without  grief  or  pain, 
from  the  earth  she  loves,  yet  whose  grosser  paths 
her  light  steps  only  touched  to  show  the  track 
through  them  to  Heaven.  This  is  genuine  art, 
and  such  as  all  cannot  fail  to  recognize  who 
read  the  book  in  a right  sympathy  with  the  con- 
ception that  pervades  it.  Nor,  great  as  the 
discomfort  was  of  reading  it  in  brief  weekly 
snatches,  can  I be  wholly  certain  that  the  dis- 
comfort of  so  writing  it  involved  nothing  but 
disadvantage.  With  so  much  in  every  portion 
to  do,  and  so  little  space  to  do  it  in,  the  oppor- 
tunities to  a writer  for  mere  self-indulgence  were 
necessarily  rare. 

Of  the  innumerable  tributes  the  story  has 
received,  and  to  none  other  by  Dickens  have 
more  or  more  various  been  paid,  there  is  one, 
the  very  last,  which  has  much  affected  me.  Not 
many  months  before  my  friend’s  death,  he  had 
sent  me  two  Overland  Monthlies  containing  two 
sketches  by  a young  American  writer  far  away  in 
California,  “ The  Luck  of  Roaring  Camp,"  and 
“ The  Outcasts  of  Poker  Flat,”  in  which  he  had 
found  such  subtle  strokes  of  character  as  he  had 
not  anywhere  else  in  late  years  discovered  ; the 
manner  resembling  himself,  but  the  matter  fresh 
to  a degree  that  had  surprised  him  ; the  painting 
in  all  respects  masterly ; and  the  wild  rude  thing 
painted,  quite  a wonderful  reality.  I have 
rarely  known  him  more  honestly  moved.  A few 
months  passed  : telegraph  wires  flashed  over  the 
world  that  he  had  passed  away  on  the  9 th  of 
June;  and  the  young  writer  of  whom  he  had 
then  written  to  me,  all  unconscious  of  that  praise, 
put  his  tribute  of  gratefulness  and  sorrow  into 
tlie  form  of  a poem  called  Dickens  in  CanipT 
It  embodies  the  same  kind  of  incident  which 
had  so  affected  the  master  ” himself,  in  the 
papers  to  which  I have  referred  ; it  shows  the 
gentler  influences,  which,  in  even  those  Cali- 
fornian wilds,  can  restore  outlawed  “ roaring 
camps  ’’  to  silence  and  humanity ; and  there  is 
* Poems.  By  Brel  Harte. 


hardly  any  form  of  posthumous  tribute  which  I 
can  imagine  likely  to  have  better  satisfied  his  de- 
sire of  fame,  than  one  which  should  thus  connect 
with  the  special  favourite  among  all  his  heroines, 
the  restraints  and  authority  exerted  by  his  genius 
over  the  rudest  and  least  civilized  of  competitors 
in  that  far  fierce  race  for  wealth. 

Above  the  pines  the  moon  was  slowly  drifting, 

The  river  sang  below  ; 

The  dim  Sierras,  far  beyond,  uplifting 
Their  minarets  of  snow  : 

The  roaring  camp-fire,  with  rude  humour,  painted 
The  ruddy  tints  of  health 

On  haggard  face  and  form  that  drooped  and  fainted 
In  the  fierce  race  for  wealth  ; 

Till  one  arose,  and  from  his  pack’s  scant  treasure 
A hoarded  volume  drew. 

And  cards  were  dropped  from  hands  of  listless  leisure 
To  hear  the  tale  anew  ; 

And  then,  while  round  them  shadows  gathered  faster, 
And  as  the  fire-light  fell. 

He  read  aloud  the  book  wherein  the  Master 
Had  writ  of  “ Little  Nell : ” 

Perhaps  ’twas  boyish  fancy, — for  the  reader 
Was  youngest  of  them  all, — 

But,  as  he  read,  from  clustering  pine  and  cedar 
A silence  seemed  to  fall ; 

The  fir-trees  gathering  closer  in  the  shadows. 

Listened  in  every  spray, 

While  the  whole  camp,  with  “Nell”  on  English  meadows. 
Wandered  and  lost  their  way  : 

And  so  in  mountain  solitudes — o’ertaken 
As  by  some  spell  divine — 

Their  cares  dropped  from  them  like  the  needles  shaken 
From  out  the  gusty  pine. 

Lost  is  that  camp,  and  wasted  all  its  fire  ; 

And  he  who  wrought  that  spell — 

Ah,  towering  pine  and  stately  Kentish  spire. 

Ye  have  one  tale  to  tell ! 

Lost  is  that  camp  ! but  let  its  fragrant  story 
Blend  with  the  breath  that  thrills 
With  hop-vines’  incense  all  the  pensive  glory 
That  fills  the  Kentish  hills. 

And  on  that  grave  where  English  oak  and  holly 
And  laurel  wreaths  entwine. 

Deem  it  not  all  a too  presumptuous  folly, — 

This  spray  of  Western  pine  ! 

July,  1870. 


VIII. 

DEVONSHIRE  TERRACE  AND  BROADSTAIRS. 

1840. 

IT  was  an  excellent  saying  of  the  first  Lord 
Shaftesbury,  that,  seeing  every  man  of  any 
capacity  holds  within  himself  two  men,  the  wise 
and  the  foolish,  each  of  them  ouglit  freely  to  be 
allowed  his  turn ; and  it  was  one  of  the  secrets 
of  Dickens’s  social  charm  that  he  could,  in  strict 


DEVONSHIRE  TERRACE  AND  BROADSTAIRS.  6i 


accordance  with  this  saying,  allow  each  part  of 
him  its  turn  ; could  afford  thoroughly  to  give 
rest  and  relief  to  what  was  serious  in  him,  and, 
when  the  time  came  to  play  his  gambols,  could 
surrender  himself  wholly  to  the  enjoyment  of 
the  time,  and  become  the  very  genius  and 
embodiment  of  one  of  his  own  most  whimsical 
fancies. 

Turning  back  from  the  narrative  of  his  last 
piece  of  writing  to  recall  a few  occurrences  of 
the  year  during  which  it  had  occupied  him,  I 
find  him  at  its  opening  in  one  of  these  humorous 
moods,  and  another  friend,  with  myself,  en- 
slaved by  its  influence.  “ What  on  earth  does 
it  all  mean,”  wrote  poor  puzzled  Mr.  Landor  to 
me,  enclosing  a letter  from  him  of  the  date  of 
the  nth  of  February,  the  day  after  the  royal 
nuptials  of  that  year.  In  this  he  had  related  to 
our  old  friend  a wonderful  hallucination  arising 
out  of  that  event,  which  had  then  taken  entire 
possession  of  him.  “ Society  is  unhinged  here,” 
tiius  ran  the  letter,  “by  her  Majesty’s  marriage, 
and  I am  sorry  to  add  that  I have  fallen  hope- 
lessly in  love  with  the  Queen,  and  wander  up 
and  down  with  vague  and  dismal  thoughts  of  | 
running  away  to  some  uninhabited  island  with  a 
maid  of  honour,  to  be  entrapped  by. conspiracy 
for  that  purpose.  Can  you  suggest  any  parti- 
cular young  person,  serving  in  such  a capacity, 
who  would  suit  me  ? It  is  too  much  perhaps  to 
ask  you  to  join  the  band  of  noble  youths  (Forster 
is  in  it,  and  Maclise)  who  are  to  assist  me  in 
this  great  enterprise,  but  a man  of  your  energy 
would  be  invaluable.  I have  my  eye  upon 
Lady  . . . , principally  because  she  is  very 
beautiful,  and  has  no  strong  brothers.  Upon 
this  and  other  points  of  the  scheme,  however, 
we  will  confer  more  at  large  when  we  meet ; and 
meanwhile  burn  this  document,  that  no  suspicion 
may  arise  or  rumour  get  abroad.” 

The  maid  of  honour  and  the  uninhabited 
island  were  flights  of  fancy,  but  the  other  daring 
delusion  was  for  a time  encouraged  to  such 
whimsical  lengths,  not  alone  by  him  but  (under 
his  influence)  by  the  two  friends  named,  that  it 
took  the  wildest  forms  of  humorous  extrava- 
^ gance ; and  of  the  private  confidences  much 
interchanged,  as  well  as  of  his  own  style  of  open 
speech  in  which  the  joke  of  a despairing  unfit- 
ness for  any  farther  use  or  enjoyment  of  life  was 
unflaggingly  kept  up,  to  the  amazement  of  by- 
standers knowing  nothing  of  what  it  meant  and 
believing  he  had  half  lost  his  senses,  I permit 
myself  to  give  from  his  letters  one  further  illus- 
tration. “ I am  utterly  lost  in  misery,”  he  writes 
on  the  i2th  of  February,  “and  can  do  nothing. 

I have  been  reading  Oliver,  Pickwick,  and 


Nickleby  to  get  my  thoughts  together  for  the 
new  effort,  but  all  in  vain  : 

‘ My  heart  is  at  Windsor, 

My  heart  isn’t  here  ; 

My  heart  is  at  Windsor, 

A following  my  dear.’ 

I saw  the  Responsibilities  this  morning,  and 
burst  into  tears.  The  presence  of  my  wife 
aggravates  me.  I loathe  my  parents.  I detest 
my  house.  I begin  to  have  thoughts  of  the 
Serpentine,  of  the  Regent’s- canal,  of  the  razors 
upstairs,  of  the  chemist’s  down  the  street,  of 
poisoning  myself  at  Mrs. ’s  table,  of  hang- 

ing myself  upon  the  pear-tree  in  the  garden,  of 
abstaining  from  food  and  starving  myself  to 
death,  of  being  bled  for  my  cold  and  tearing  off 
the  bandage,  of  falling  under  the  feet  of  cab- 
horses  in  the  New-road,  of  murdering  Chapman 
and  Hall  and  becoming  great  in  story  (She 
must  hear  something  of  me  then — perhaps 
sign  the  warrant : or  is  that  a fable  ?),  of  turn- 
ing Chartist,  of  heading  some  bloody  assault 
upon  the  palace  and  saving  Her  by  my  single 

hand of  being  anything  but  what  I have 

been,  and  doing  anything  but  what  I have  done. 
Your  distracted  friend,  C.  D.”  The  wild  de- 
rangement of  asterisks  in  every  shape  and  form, 
with  which  this  incoherence  closed,  cannot  be 
given. 

Some  ailments  which  dated  from  an  earlier 
period  in  his  life  made  themselves  felt  in  the 
spring  of  the  year,  as  I remember,  and  increased 
horse  exercise  was  strongly  recommended  to 
him.  “ I find  it  will  be  positively  necessary  to 
go,  for  five  days  in  the  week  at  least,”  he  wrote 
in  March,  “ on  a perfect  regimen  of  diet  and 
exercise,  and  am  anxious  not  to  delay  treating 
for  a horse.”  We  were  now  therefore,  when  he 
was  not  at  the  seaside,  much  on  horseback  in 
suburban  lanes  and  roads ; and  the  spacious 
garden  of  his  new  house  was  also  turned  to 
healthful  use  at  even  his  busiest  working  times. 
I mark  this,  too,  as  the  time  when  the  first  of 
his  ravens  took  up  residence ; and  as  the 
beginning  of  disputes  with  two  of  his  neighbours 
about  the  smoking  of  the  stable  chimney,  whicli 
his  groom  Topping,  a highly  absurd  little  man 
with  flaming  red  hair,  so  complicated  by  secret 
devices  of  his  own,  meant  to  conciliate  each 
complainant  alternately  and  having  the  effect  of 
aggravating  both,  that  law  proceedings  were  only 
barely  avoided.  “ I shall  give  you,”  he  writes, 
“ my  latest  report  of  the  chimney  in  the  form  of 
an  address  from  Topping,  made  to  me  on  our 
way  from  little  Hall’s  at  Norwood  the  other 
night,  where  he  and  Chapman  and  I had  been 
walking  all  day,  while  Topping  drove  Kate,  Mrs. 


62  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICICENS. 


Hall,  and  her  sisters,  to  Dulwich.  Topping  had 
been  regaled  upon  the  premises,  and  was  just 
drunk  enough  to  be  confidential.  ‘ Beggin’  your 
pardon,  sir,  but  the  genelman  next  door,  sir, 
seems  to  be  gettin’  quite  comfortable  and  plea- 
sant about  the  chim’ley.’ — ‘ I don’t  think  he  is, 
Topping.’ — ‘ Yes  he  is  sir  I think.  He  comes 
out  in  the  yard  this  morning  and  says  Coachman 
he  says  ’ (observe  the  vision  of  a great  large  fat 
man  called  up  by  the  word)  ‘ is  that  your  raven 
he  says  Coachman  ? or  is  it  ALr.  Dickens's  raven  2 
he  says.  My  master’s  sir,  I says.  iVell,  he 
says,  it's  a fine  bird.  I think  the  chimley  'ill  do 
now  Coachman, — now  the  jint's  taken  off  the  pipe 
he  says.  I hope  it  will  sir,  I says  ; my  master’s 
a genelman  as  wouldn’t  annoy  no  genelman  if 
he  could  help  it.  I’m  sure;  and  my  own  missis 
is  so  afraid  of  havin’  a bit  o’  fire  that  o’  Sundays 
our  little  bit  o’  weal  or  what  not,  goes  to  the 
baker’s  a purpose. — Damn  the  chimley  CoacJwian, 
he  says,  it's  a smokin'  now. — It  a’nt  a smokin’ 
your  way  sir,  I says  ; IVcll,  he  says,  no  more  it 
is,  Coachman,  and  as  long  as  it  smokes  anybody 
else's  way,  it's  all  right  and  I'm  agreeable.’  Of 
course  I shall  now  have  the  man  from  the  other 
side  upon  me,  and  very  likely  with  an  action  of 
nuisance  for  smoking  into  his  conservatory.” 

A graver  incident,  which  occurred  to  him  also 
among  his  earliest  experiences  as  tenant  of 
Devonshire-terrace,  illustrates  too  well  the  prac- 
tical turn  of  his  kindness  and  humanity  not  to 
deserve  relation.  He  has  himself  described  it, 
in  one  of  his  minor  writings,  in  setting  down 
what  he  remembered  as  the  only  good  that  ever 
came  of  a beadle.  “ Of  that  great  parish  func- 
tionary,” he  remarks,  “ having  newly  taken  the 
lease  of  a house  in  a certain  distinguished  me- 
tropolitan parish,  a house  which  then  appeared  to 
me  to  be  a frightfully  first-class  family  mansion 
involving  awful  responsibilities,  I became  the 
prey.”  In  other  words  he  was  summoned,  and 
obliged  to  sit,  as  juryman  at  an  inquest  on  the 
body  of  a little  child  alleged  to  have  been  mur- 
dered by  its  mother ; of  which  the  I'esult  was, 
that,  by  his  persevering  exertion,  seconded  by 
the  humane  help  of  the  coroner,  Mr.  Wakley,  the 
verdict  of  himself  and  his  fellow-jurymen  charged 
her  only  with  the  concealment  of  birth.  “ The 
poor  desolate  creature  dropped  upon  her  knees 
before  us  with  protestations  that  we  were  right 
(protestations  among  the  most  affecting  that  I 
have  ever  heard  in  my  life),  and  was  carried 
away  insensible.  I caused  some  extra  care  to 
be  taken  of  her  in  the  prison,  and  counsel  to  be 
retained  for  her  defence  when  she  was  tried  at 
the  Old  Bailey  ; and  her  sentence  was  lenient, 
and  her  history  and  conduct  proved  tliat  it  was 


right.”  How  much  he  felt  the  little  incident,  at 
the  actual  time  of  its  occurrence,  may  be  judged 
from  the  few  lines  written  next  morning : 
“ Whether  it  was  the  poor  baby,  or  its  poor 
mother,  or  the  coffin,  or  my  fellow-jurymen,  or 
what  not,  I can’t  say,  but  last  night  I had  a 
most  violent  attack  of  sickness  and  indigestion 
which  not  only  prevented  me  from  sleeping,  but 
even  from  lying  down.  Accordingly  Kate  and 
I sat  up  through  the  dreary  watches.” 

The  day  of  the  first  publication  of  Master 
Humphrey  (Saturday,  4th  April)  had  by  this  time 
come,  and,  according  to  the  rule  observed  in 
his  two  other  great  ventures,  he  left  town  with 
Mrs.  Dickens  on  Friday  the  3rd.  With  Maclise 
we  had  been  together  at  Richmond  the  previous 
night;  and  I joined  him  at  Birmingham  the  day 
following,  with  news  of  the  sale  of  the  whole 
sixty  thousand  copies  to  which  the  first  working 
had  been  limited,  and  of  orders  already  in  hand 
for  ten  thousand  more ! The  excitement  of 
the  success  somewhat  lengthened  our  holi- 
day ; and,  after  visiting  Shakespeare’s  house  at 
Stratford,  and  Johnson’s  at  Lichfield,  we  found 
our  resources  so  straitened  in  returning,  that, 
employing  as  our  messenger  of  need  his  younger 
brother  Alfred,  who  had  joined  us  from  Tam- 
worth  where  he  was  a student-engineer,  we  had 
to  pawn  our  gold  watches  at  Birmingham. 

i\.t  the  end  of  the  following  month  he  went  to 
Broadstairs,  and  not  many  days  before  (on  the 
20th  of  May)  a note  from  Mr.  Jerdan  on  behalf 
of  Mr.  Bentley  opened  the  negotiations  formerly 
referred  to,  which  transferred  to  Messrs.  Chap- 
man and  Hall  the  agreement  iox  Barnaby  Rudge. 
I was  myself  absent  when  he  left,  and  in  a letter 
announcing  his  departure  he  had  written : “ I 
don’t  know  of  a word  of  news  in  all  London,  but 
there  will  be  plenty  next  week,  for  I am  going 
away,  and  I hope  you  will  send  me  an  account 
of  it.  I am  doubtful  whether  it  will  be  a mur- 
der, a fire,  a vast  robbery,  or  the  escape  of 
Gould,  but  it  will  be  something  remarkable,  no 
doubt.  I almost  blame  myself  for  the  death  of 
that  poor  girl  who  leaped  off  the  monument 
upon  my  leaving  town  last  year.  She  would  not 
have  done  it  if  I had  remained,  neither  would 
the  two  men  have  found  the  skeleton  in  the 
sewers.”  His  prediction  was  quite  accuiate,  for 
I had  to  tell  him,  after  not  many  days,  of  the 
potboy  who  shot  at  the  Queen.  “It’s  a great 
pity  they  couldn’t  suffocate  that  boy,  Master 
Oxford,”  he  replied  very  sensibly,  “ and  say  no 
more  about  it.  'bo  have  put  him  (|uietly  between 
two  feather-beds  would  liave  stoi)peil  his  heroic 
speeches,  and  dulled  the  sound  of  his  glory  very 
much.  As  it  is,  site  will  have  to  run  the  gauntlet 


DEVONSHIRE  TERRACE  AND  BROADSTAIRS. 


of  many  a fool  and  madman,  some  of  wliom  may 
jierchance  be  better  shots  and  use  other  than 
Ikummagem  firearms.”  How  much  of  this  actu- 
ally came  to  pass,  the  reader  knows. 

From  the  letters  of  his  jiresent  Broadstairs 
visit,  there  is  little  more  to  add  to  the  account  of 
his  progress  witli  his  story  ; but  a sentence  may 
be  given  for  its  characteristic  expression  of  Iris 
invariable  habit  upon  entering  any  new  abode, 
whether  to  stay  in  it  for  days  or  for  years.  On 
a ^Monday  night  he  arrived,  and  on  the  Tuesday 
(2nd  of  June)  he  wrote : “ Before  I tasted  bit  or 
drop  yesterday,  I set  out  my  writing-table  with 
extreme  taste  and  neatness,  and  improved  the 
disposition  of  the  furniture  generally.”  He 
stayed  till  the  end  of  June;  when  Maclise  and 
myself  joined  him  for  the  pleasure  of  posting 
back  home  by  way  of  his  favourite  Chatham, 
Rochester,  and  Cobham,  where  we  passed  two 
agreeable  days  in  revisiting  well-remembered 
scenes.  Meanwhile  there  had  been  brought  to 
a close  the  treaty  for  repurchase  of  Oliver  and 
surrender  of  Barnaby,  upon  terms  which  are  suc- 
cinctly stated  in  a letter  written  by  him  to  Messrs. 
Chapman  and  Hall  on  the  2nd  of  July,  the  day 
after  our  return. 

“ The  terms  upon  which  you  advance  the 
money  to-day  for  the  purchase  of  the  copyright 
and  stock  of  Oliver  on  my  behalf,  are  under- 
stood between  us  to  be  these.  That  this  2250/. 
is  to  be  deducted  from  the  purchase-money  of  a 
work  by  me  entitled  Barnaby  Rudge,  of  which 
two  chapters  are  now  in  your  hands,  and  of 
which  the  whole  is  to  be  written  within  some 
convenient  time  to  be  agreed  upon  between  us. 
But  if  it  should  not  be  written  (which  God 
forbid  !)  within  five  years,  you  are  to  have  a lien 
to  this  amount  on  the  property  belonging  to  me 
that  is  now  in  your  hands,  namely,  my  shares  in 
the  stock  and  copyright  of  Sketches  by  Boz,  The 
Pickwick  Papers,  Nicholas  Nickleby,  Oliver 
Tioist,  and  Master  Humphrey' s Clock ; in  which 
we  do  not  include  any  share  of  the  current 
profits  of  the  last-named  work,  which  I shall 
remain  at  liberty  to  draw  at  the  times  stated  in 
our  agreement.  Your  purchase  of  Barnaby 
Pledge  is  made  upon  the  following  terms.  It  is 
to  consist  of  matter  sufficient  for  ten  monthly 
numbers  of  the  size  of  Pickwick  and  Nickleby, 
which  you  are  however  at  liberty  to  divide  and 
publish  in  fifteen  smaller  numbers  if  you  think 
fit.  The  terms  for  the  purchase  of  this  edition 
in  numbers,  and  for  the  copyright  of  the  whole 
book  for  six  months  after  the  publication  of  the 
last  number,  are  3000/.  At  the  expiration  of 
the  six  months  the  whole  copyright  reverts  to 
me.”  The  sequel  Avas,  as  all  the  Avorld  knows. 


63 


that  Barnaby  became  successor  to  little  Nell,  the 
money  being  repaid  by  the  jn'ofits  of  the  Clock; 
but  I ought  also  to  mention  the  generous  sequel 
that  was  given  to  the  small  service  thus  rendered 
to  him,  by  the  gift,  after  not  many  days,  of  an 
antique  silver-mounted  jug  of  great  beauty  of 
form  and  workmanship,  and  with  a wealth  far 
beyond  artist’s  design  or  jeweller’s  chasing  in 
written  words  that  accompanied  it.*  They  were 
accepted  to  commemorate,  not  the  helj)  they 
would  have  far  overpaid,  but  the  gladness  of  his 
own  escape  from  the  last  of  the  agreements 
that  had  hampered  the  opening  of  his  career, 
and  the  better  future  which  was  now  before 
him. 

At  the  opening  of  August  he  was  with  Mrs. 
Dickens  for  some  days  in  Devonshire,  on  a visit 
to  his  father,  but  he  had  to  take  his  work  with 
him  ; and  they  had  only  one  real  holiday,  when 
Dawlish,  Teignmouth,  Babbicombe,  and  Tor- 
quay were  explored,  returning  to  Exeter  at  night. 
In  the  beginning  of  September  he  was  again  at 
Broadstairs. 

“ I was  just  going  to  v/ork,”  he  wrote  on  the 
9th,  “when  I got  this  letter,  and  the  story  of 
the  man  who  went  to  Chapman  and  Hall’s 
knocked  me  down  flat.  I wrote  until  now  (a 
quarter  to  one)  against  the  gtain,  and  have  at 
last  given  it  up  for  one  day.  Upon  my  word  it 
is  intolerable.  I have  been  grinding  my  teeth 
all  the  morning.  I think  I could  say  in  two 
lines  something  about  the  general  report  with 
propriety.  I’ll  add  them  to  the  proof”  (the 
preface  to  the  first  volume  of  the  Clock  was  at 
this  time  in  preparation),  “ giving  you  full  powee 
to  cut  them  out  if  you  should  think  differently 
from  me,  and  from  C and  H,  who  in  such  a 
matter  must  be  admitted  judges.”  He  refers 
here  to  a report,  rather  extensively  circulated  at 
the  time,  and  which  through  various  channels 
had  reached  his  publishers,  that  he  was  suffering 
from  loss  of  reason  and  was  under  treatment  in 

* “Accept  from  me”  (July  8tb,  1840),  “as  a slight 
memorial  of  your  attached  companion,  the  poor  keepsake 
which  accompanies  this.  My  heart  is  not  an  eloquent 
one  on  matters  which  touch  it  most,  but  suppose  this 
claret  jug  the  urn  in  which  it  lies,  and  believe  that  its 
warmest  and  truest  blood  is  yours.  This  was  the  object 
of  my  fruitless  search,  and  your  curiosity,  on  Friday.  At 
first  I scarcely  knew  what  trifle  (you  will  deem  it  valu- 
able, I know,  for  the  giver’s  sake)  to  send  you  ; but  I 
thought  it  would  be  pleasant  to  connect  it  with  our  jovial 
moments,  and  to  let  it  add,  to  the  wine  we  shall  drink 
from  it  together,  a flavour  which  the  choicest  vintage 
could  never  impart.  Take  it  from  my  hand — filled  to 
the  brim  and  running  over  with  truth  and  earnestness. 
I have  just  taken  one  parting  look  at  it,  and  it  seems  the 
most  elegant  thing  in  the  world  to  me,  for  I lose  sight  of 
the  vase  in  the  crowd  of  welcome  associations  that  are 
clustering  and  wreathing  themselves  about  it.” 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


64 


an  asylum."'  I would  have  withheld  it  from 
him,  as  an  absurdity  that  must  quickly  be  for- 
gotten— but  he  had  been  told  of  it,  and  there 
was  a difficulty  in  keeping  within  judicious 
bounds  his  not  unnatural  wrath. 

A few  days  later  (the  15th)  he  wrote:  “I 
have  been  rather  surprised  of  late  to  have  ap- 
plications from  Roman-catholic  clergymen,  de- 
manding (rather  pastorally,  and  with  a kind  of 
grave  authority)  assistance,  literary  emj^loyment, 
and  so  forth.  At  length  it  struck  me,  that, 
through  some  channel  or  other,  I must  have 
been  represented  as  belonging  to  that  religion. 
Would  you  believe,  that  in  a letter  from  Lamert 
at  Cork,  to  mj|  mother,  which  I saw  last  night, 
he  says,  ‘ What  do  the  papers  mean  by  saying 
that  Charles  is  demented,  and  further,  that  he 
Jias  turned  Roman-catholic  V — !"  Of  the  beg- 
ging-letter-writers, hinted  at  here,  I ought  earlier 
to  have  said  something.  In  one  of  his  detached 
essays  he  has  described,  without  a particle  of 
-exaggeration,  the  extent  to  which  he  was  made 
a victim  by  this  class  of  swindler,  and  the  ex- 
travagance of  the  devices  practised  on  him ; 
but  he  had  not  confessed,  as  he  might,  that  for 
much  of  what  he  suffered  he  was  himself  re- 
sponsible, by  giving  so  largely,  as  at  first  he 
did,  to  almost  every  one  who  applied  to  him. 
What  at  last  brought  him  to  his  senses  in  this 
respect,  I think,  was  the  request  made  by  the 
adventurer  who  had  exhausted  every  other  ex- 
pedient, and  who  desired  finally,  after  describing 
himself  reduced  to  the  condition  of  a travelling 
Cheap  Jack  in  the  smallest  way  of  crockery, 
that  a donkey  might  be  left  out  for  him  next 
day,  which  he  would  duly  call  for.  This  I 
perfectly  remember,  and  I much  fear  that  the 
applicant  was  the  Daniel  Tobin  before  men- 
tioned.! 

Many  and  delightful  were  other  letters  writ- 
ten from  Broadstairs  at  this  date,  filled  with 
whimsical  talk  and  humorous  description,  re- 
lating chiefly  to  an  eccentric  friend  who  stayed 
with  him  most  of  the  time,  and  is  sketched  in 

* Already  lie  had  been  the  subject  of  similar  reports 
on  the  occasion  of  the  family  sorrow  which  compelled 
him  to  suspend  the  publication  of  Pickwick  for  two 
months  {ante,  32),  when,  upon  issuing  a brief  address  in 
resuming  his  work  (30th  June,  1837),  he  said  : “ By  one 
set  of  intimate  acquaintances,  especially  well-informed, 
he  has  been  killed  outright  ; by  another,  driven  mad  ; 
by  a third,  imprisoned  for  debt  ; by  a fourth,  sent  per 
steamer  to  the  United  States  ; by  a fifth,  rendered  inca- 
pable of  mental  exertion  for  evermore  ; by  all,  in  short, 
represented  as  doing  anything  but  seeking  in  a few 
weeks’  retirement  the  restoration  of  tliat  cheerfulness 
and  peace  of  which  a sad  bereavement  had  temporarily 
deprived  him.” 

t Ante,  19. 


one  of  his  published  papers  as  Mr.  Kindheart ; 
but  all  too  private  for  reproduction  now.  He 
returned  in  the  middle  of  October,  when  we 
resumed  our  almost  daily  ri'dings,  foregatherings 
with  Maclise  at  Hampstead  and  elsewhere,  and 
social  entertainments  with  Macready,  Talfourd, 
Procter,  Stanfield,  Fonblanque,  Elliotson,  Ten- 
nent,  d’Orsay,  Quin,  Harness,  Wilkie,  Edwin 
Landseer,  Rogers,  Sydney  Smith,  and  Bulwer. 
Of  the  genius  of  the  author  of  Pelham  and 
Eugene  Aram  he  had,  early  and  late,  the  highest 
admiration,  and  he  took  occasion  to  express  it 
during  the  present  year  in  a new  preface  which 
he  published  to  Oliver  Dsnst.  Other  friends 
became  familiar  in  later  years  ; but,  disinclined 
as  he  was  to  the  dinner  invitations  that  reached 
him  from  every  quarter,  all  such  meetings  with 
those  whom  I have  named,  and  in  an  especial 
manner  the  marked  attentions  shown  him  by 
Miss  Coutts,  which  began  with  the  very  begin- 
ning of  his  career,  were  invariably  welcome. 

To  speak  here  of  the  pleasure  his  society 
afforded,  would  anticipate  the  fitter  mention  to 
be  made  hereafter.  But  what  in  this  respect 
distinguishes  nearly  all  original  men,  he  pos- 
sessed eminently.  His  place  was  not  to  be 
filled  up  by  any  other.  To  the  most  trivial  talk 
he  gave  the  attraction  of  his  own  character.  It 
might  be  a small  matter ; something  he  had 
read  or  observed  during  the  day,  some  quaint 
odd  fancy  from  a book,  a vivid  little  outdoor 
picture,  the  laughing  exposure  of  some  impos- 
ture, or  a burst  of  sheer  mirthful  enjoyment ; 
but  of  its  kind  it  would  be  something  unique, 
because  genuinely  part  of  himself.  This,  and 
his  unwearying  animal  spirits,  made  him  the 
most  delightful  of  companions ; no  claim  on 
good-fellowship  ever  found  him  wanting ; and 
no  one  so  constantly  recalled  to  his  friends  tlie 
description  Johnson  gave  of  Garrick,  as  the 
cheerfullest  man  of  his  age. 

Of  what  occupied  him  in  the  way  of  literary 
labour  in  thg  autumn  and  winter  months  of  the 
year,  some  description  has  been  given  ; and, 
apart  from  what  has  already  thus  been  said  of 
his  work  at  the  closing  chapters  of  The  Old 
Curiosity  Shop,  nothing  now  calls  for  more 
special  allusion,  except  that  in  his  town-walks 
in  November,  impelled  thereto  by  specimens 
recently  discovered  in  his  country-walks  be- 
tw’cen  Broadstairs  and  Ramsgate,  he  thoroughly 
explored  the  ballad  literature  of  Seven-dials, 
and  would  occasionally  sing,  with  an  effect  that 
justified  his  reputation  for  comic  singing  in  his 
childhood,  not  a few'  of  ihosc  wonderful  produc- 
tions. His  last  successful  labour  of  the  year 
was  the  reconciliation  of  two  friends  : and  his 


DEVONSHIRE  TERRACE  AND  BROADSTAIRS.  65 


motive,  as  well  as  the  principle  that  guided  him, 
as  they  are  described  by  himself,  I think  worth 
preserving.  For  the  first  ; “ In  the  midst  of 
this  child’s  death,  I,  over  whom  something  of 
the  bitterness  of  death  has  passed,  not  lightly 
perhaps,  was  reminded  of  many  old  kindnesses, 


and  was  sorry  in  my  heart  that  men  who  really 
liked  each  other  should  waste  life  at  arm’s 
length.”  For  the  last : “ I have  laid  it  down  as 
a rule  in  my  judgment  of  men,  to  observe  nar- 
rowly whether  some  (of  whom  one  is  disposed 
to  think  badly)  don’t  carry  all  their  faults  upon 


(t 


IT  A’NT  a smokin’  your  way  sir,  I SAYS;  WELL,  HE  SAYS,  NO  MORE  IT  IS,  COACHMAN,  AND  AS  LONG 
AS  IT  SMOKES  ANYBODY  ELSE’S  WAY,  IT’S  ALL  RIGHT  AND  I’M  AGREEABLE.” 


the  surface,  and  others  (of  whom  one  is  dis- 
posed to  think  well)  don’t  carry  many  more 
beneath  it.  I have  long  ago  made  sure  that 
our  friend  is  in  the  first  class ; and  when  I know 
all  the  foibles  a man  has,  with  little  trouble  in 
the  discovery,  I begin  to  think  he  is  worth 


liking.”  His  latest  letter  of  the  year,  dated  the 
day  following,  closed  with  the  hope  that  we 
might,  he  and  I,  enjoy  together  “fifty  more 
Christmases,  at  least,  in  this  world,  and  eternal 
summers  in  another.”  Alas  ! 


66 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


IX. 


BARNABY  RUDGE. 


1841. 


HE  letters  of  1841  yield  similar  fruit 
as  to  his  doings  and  sayings,  and 
may  in  like  manner  first  be  con- 
sulted for  the  literary  work  he  had 
in  hand. 

He  had  the  advantage  of  beginning 
nalyy  Fudge  with  a fair  amount  of  story  in 
advance,  which  he  had  only  to  make  suit- 
able, by  occasional  readjustment  of  chapters,  to 
publication  in  weekly  portions  ; and  on  this  he 
was  engaged  before  the  end  of  January.  “ I am 
at  present  ” (22nd  January,  1841)  “ in  what  Leigh 
Hunt  would  call  a kind  of  impossible  state — 
thinking  w'hat  on  earth  Master  Humphrey  can 
think  of  through  four  mortal  pages.  I added 
here  and  there  to  the  last  chapter  of  the  Curiosity 
Shop  yesterday,  and  it  leaves  me  only  four  pages 
to  write.”  (They  were  filled  by  a paper  from 
Humphrey  introductory  of  the  new  tale,  in  wdiich 
will  be  found  a striking  picture  of  London,  from 
midnight  to  the  break  of  day.)  “ I also'  made 
up,  and  wu'ote  the  needful  insertions  for,  th6' 
second  number  of  Barnaby — so  that  I came 
back  to  the  mill  a little.”  Hardly  yet ; for  after 
four  days  he  writes,  having  meanwhile  done  no- 
thing : “ I have  been  looking  (three  o’clock)  wdth 
an  appearance  of  extraordinary  interest  and  study 
at  one  leaf  of  the  Curiosities  of  Literature  ever 
since  half-past  ten  this  morning-*-!  haven’t  the 
heart  to  turn  over.”  Then,  on  Friday  the  29th, 
better  news  came.  “ I didn’t  stir  out  yesterday, 
but  sat  and  thought  all  day  ; not  writing  a line; 
not  so  much  as  the  cross  of  a t or  dot  of  an  i.  I 
imaged  forth  a good  deal  of  Barnaby  by  keeping 
my  mind  steadily  upon  him  ; and  am  happy  to 
say  I have  gone  to  work  this  morning  in  good 
twig,  strong  hope,  and  cheerful  spirits.  Last 
night  I was  unutterably  and  impossible-to-form- 

an-idea-of-ably  miserable By  the  bye 

don’t  engage  yourself  otherwise  than  to  me  for 
Sunday  week,  because  it’s  my  birthday.  I have 
no  doubt  we  shall  have  got  over  our  troubles 
here  by  that  time,  and  I purpose  having  a snug 
dinner  in  tire  study.”  We  had  the  dinner,  though 
the  troubles  were  not  over;  but  the  next  day 
another  son  w'as  born  to  him.  “ Thank  God,” 
he  wrote  on  the  9th,  “ (juite  well.  I am  think- 
ing hard,  and  have  just  written  to  Browne  en- 
quiring when  he  will  come  and  confer  about  the 
raven.”  He  had  by  this  time  resolved  to  make 
that  bird,  w'hose  accomjrlishments  had  been 


daily  ripening  and  enlarging  for  the  last  twelve 
months  to  the  increasing  mirth  and  delight  of 
all  of  us,  a prominent  figure  in  Barnaby ; and 
the  invitation  to  the  artist  was  for  a conference 
how  best  to  introduce  him  graphically. 

The  next  letter  mentioning  Barnaby  was  from 
Brighton  (25th  February),  whither  he  had  flown 
for  a week’s  quiet  labour.  “ I have  (it’s  four 
o’clock)  done  a very  fair  morning’s  work,  at 
which  I have  sat  very  close,  and  been  blessed 
besides  with  a clear  view  of  the  end  of  the  volume. 
As  the  contents  of  one  number  usually  require  a 
day’s  thought  at  the  very  least,  and  often  more, 
this  puts  me  in  great  spirits.  I think — that  is,  I 
hope — the  story  takes  a great  stride  at  this  point, 
and  takes  it  well.  Nous  verrons.  Grip  will 
be  strong,  and  I build  greatly  on  the  Varden 
household.” 

Upon  his  return  he  had  to  lament  a domestic 
calamity,  which,  for  its  connection  with  a famous 
personage  in  Barnaby,  must  be  mentioned  here. 
The  raven  had  for  some  days  been  ailing,  and 
Topping  had  reported  of  him,  as  Hamlet  de- 
clares of  himself,  that  he  had  lost  his  mirth  and 
foregone  all  custom  of  exercises:  but  Dickens 
paid  no  great  heed,  remembering  his  recovery 
from  an  illness  of  the  previous  summer  when  he 
swallowed  some  white  paint ; so  that  the  graver 
report  which  led  him  to  send  for  the  doctor 
came  upon  him  unexpectedly,  and  nothing  but 
his  own  language  can  worthily  describe  the  re- 
sult. Unable  from  the  state  of  his  feelings  to 
write  two  letters,  he  sent  the  narrative  to  Maclise 
under  an  enormous  black  seal,  for  transmission 
to  me.  ' 

“ You  will  be  greatly  shocked”  (the  letter  is 
dated  Friday  evening,  12th  of  March,  1841) 
“ and  grieved  to  hear  that  the  Raven  is  no 
more.  He  expired  to-day  at  a few  minutes 
after  twelve  o’clock  at  noon.  He  had  been 
ailing  for  a few  days,  but  we  anticipated  no 
serious  result,  conjecturing  that  a portion  of  the 
white  paint  he  swallowed  last  summer  might  be 
lingering  about  his  vitals  without  having  any 
serious  effect  upon  his  constitution.  Yesterday 
afternoon  he  was  taken  so  much  worse  that  1 
sent  an  express  for  the  medical  gentleman  (Mr. 
Herring),  who  promptly  attended,  and  admi- 
nistererl  a powerful  dose  of  castor  oil.  Under 
the  influence  of  this  medicine,  he  recovered  so 
far  as  to  be  able  at  eight  o'clock  p.m.  to  bile 
Topping.  His  night  was  peaceful.  This  morn- 
ing at  daybreak  he  apirearcd  better ; received 
(agreeably  to  the  doctor’s  directions)  another 
dose  of  castor  oil  ; and  partook  plentifully  of 
some  warm  gruel,  the  flavor  of  wliich  he  ap- 
peared to  relish.  Towards  eleven  o’clock  he 


BARNABY  RUDGE. 


was  so  mucli  worse  that  it  was  found  necessary 
to  muffle  the  stable-knocker.  At  half-past,  or 
thereabouts,  he  was  heard  talking  to  himself 
about  the  horse  and  Topping’s  family,  and  to 
add  some  incoherent  expressions  which  are  sup- 
posed to  have  been  either  a foreboding  of  his 
approaching  dissolution,  or  some  wishes  relative 
to  the  disposal  of  his  little  property : consisting 
chiefly  of  half-pence  which  he  had  buried  in 
different  parts  of  the  garden.  On  the  clock 
striking  twelve  he  appeared  slightly  agitated, 
but  he  soon  recovered,  walked  twice  or  thrice 
along  the  coach-house,  stopped  to  bark,  stag- 
gered, exclaimed  Halloa  old  girl ! (his  favourite 
expression),  and  died. 

“ He  behaved  throughout  with  a decent  forti- 
tude, equanimity,  and  self-possession,  which  can- 
not be  too  much  admired.  I deeply  regret  that 
being  in  ignorance  of  his  danger  I did  not  attend 
to  receive  his  last  instructions.  Something  re- 
markable about  his  eyes  occasioned  Topping  to 
run  for  the  doctor  at  twelve.  When  they  re- 
turned together  our  friend  was  gone.  It  was 
the  medical  gentleman  who  informed  me  of  his 
decease.  He  did  it  with  great  caution  and  deli- 
cacy, preparing  me  by  the  remark  that  ‘a  jolly 
queer  start  had  taken  place ; ’ but  the  shock  was 
very  great  notwithstanding.  I am  not  wholly 
free  from  suspicions  of  poison.  A malicious 
butcher  has  been  heard  to  say  that  he  would 
‘ do  ’ for  him  : his  plea  was  that  he  would  not  be 
molested  in  taking  orders  down  the  mews,  by 
any  bird  that  wore  a tail.  Other  persons  have 
also  been  heard  to  threaten : among  others, 
Charles  Knight,  who  has  just  started  a weekly 
publication  price  fourpence  : Barnaby  being,  as 
. you  know,  threepence.  I have  directed  a post- 
mortem  examination,  and  the  body  has  been  re- 
moved to  Mr.  Herring’s  school  of  anatomy  for 
that  purpose. 

“I  could  wish,  if  you  can  take  the  trouble, 
that  you  could  inclose  this  to  Forster  immedi- 
ately after  you  have  read  it.  I cannot  discharge 
the  painful  task  of  communication  more  than  once. 
Were  they  ravens  who  took  manna  to  somebody 
in  the  wilderness  ? At  times  I hope  they  were, 
and  at  others  I fear  they  were  not,  or  they  would 
certainly  have  stolen  it  by  the  way.  In  profound 
sorrow,  I am  ever  your  bereaved  friend  C.  D. 
Kate  is  as  well  as  can  be  expected,  but  terribly 
low  as  you  may  suppose.  The  children  seem 
rather  glad  of  it.  He  bit  their  ankles.  But 
that  was  play.” 

In  what  way  the  loss  was  replaced,  so  that 
Barnaby  should  have  the  fruit  of  continued 
study  of  the  habits  of  the  family  of  birds  which 
Grip  had  so  nobly  represented,  Dickens  has  told 


67 


in  the  preface  to  the  story;  and  another,  older, 
and  larger  Grip,  obtained  through  Mr.  Smith- 
son,  was  installed  in  the  stable,  almost  before 
the  stuffed  remains  of  his  honoured  predecessor 
had  been  sent  home  in  a glass  case,  by  way  of 
ornament  to  his  bereaved  master’s  study. 

I resume  our  correspondence  on  what  he  was 
writing.  “ I see  there  is  yet  room  for  a few 
lines,”  (25th  of  March)  “ and  you  are  quite  right 
in  wishing  what  I cut  out  to  be  restored.  I did 
not  want  Joe  to  be  so  short  about  Dolly,  and 
really  wrote  his  references  to  that  young  lady 
carefully — as  natural  things  with  a meaning  in 
them.  Chigwell,  my  dear  fellow,  is  the  greatest 
place  in  the  world.  Name  your  day  for 
going.  Such  a delicious  old  inn  opposite  the 
churchyard — such  a lo\-ely  ride — such  beautiful 
forest  scenery — such  an  out  of  the  way,  rural 
place— such  a sexton  ! I say  again,  name  your 
day.”  The  day  was  named  at  once;  and  the 
whitest  of  stones  marks  it  now  in  sorrowful 
memory.  His  promise  was  exceeded  by  our 
enjoyment ; and  his  delight  in  the  double  re- 
cognition, of  himself  and  of  Barnaby,  by  the 
landlord  of  the  nice  old  inn,  far  exceeded  any 
pride  he  would  have  taken  in  what  the  world 
thinks  the  highest  sort  of  honour. 

“ I have  shut  myself  up  ” (26th  of  March)  “ by 
myself  to-day,  and  mean  to  try  and  ‘go  it  ’ at 
the  Clock;  Kate  being  out,  and  the  house  peace- 
fully dismal.  I don’t  remember  altering  the 
exact  part  you  object  to,  but  if  there  be  any- 
thing here  you  object  to,  knock  it  out  ruth- 
lessly.” “ Don’t  fail”  (April  the  5th)  “to  erase 
anything  that  seems  to  you  too  strong.  It  is 
difficult  for  me  to  judge  what  tells  too  much, 
and  what  does  not.  I am  trying  a very  quiet 
number  to  set  against  this  necessary  one.  I 
hope  it  will  be  good,  but  I am  in  very  sad  con- 
dition for  work.  Glad  you  think  this  powerful. 
What  I have  put  in  is  more  relief,  from  the 
raven.”  Two  days  later : “ I have  done  that 
number,  and  am  now  going  to  work  on  another. 
I am  bent  (please  Heaven)  on  finishing  the  first 
chapter  by  Friday  night.  I hope  to  look  in 
upon  you  to-night,  when  we’ll  dispose  of  the 
toasts  for  Saturday.  Still  bilious — but  a good 
number,  I hope,  notwithstanding.  Jeffrey  has 
come  to  town,  and  was  here  yesterday.”  The 
toasts  to  be  disposed  of  were  those  to  be  given 
at  the  dinner  on  the  loth  to  celebrate  the  second 
volume  of  Master  HumpJi7-ey ; when  Talfourd 
presided,  and  there  was  much  jollity.  Accord- 
ing to  the  memorandum  drawn  up  that  Saturday 
night  now  lying  before  me,  we  all  in  the  greatest 
good  humour  glorified  each  other ; Talfourd 
proposing  the  Clock,  Macready  Mrs.  Dickens, 


68  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICICENS. 


Dickens  the  publishers,  and  myself  the  artists  ; 
Macready  giving  Talfourd,  Talfourd  Macready, 
Dickens  myself,  and  myself  the  comedian  Mr. 
Harley,  whose  humorous  songs  had  been  no 
inconsiderable  element  in  the  mirth  of  the  even- 
ing. 

Five  days  later  he  writes  : “ I finished  the 
number  yesterday,  and,  although  I dined  with 
Jeffrey,  and  was  obliged  to  go  to  Lord  Denman’s 
afterwards  (which  made  me  late),  have  done 
eight  slips  of  the  Lamplighter  for  Mrs.  Macrone, 
this  morning.  When  I have  got  that  off  my 
mind  I shall  try  to  go  on  steadily,  fetching  up 
the  Clock  lee-way.”  The  Lamplighter  was  his 
old  farce,  which  he  now  turned  into  a comic 
tale;  and  this,  with  other  contributions  given 
him  by  friends  and  edited  by  him  as  Pic  Nic 
Papers,  enabled  him  to  help  the  widow  of  his 
old  publisher  in  her  straitened  means  by  a gift 
of  £,2^00.  He  had  finished  his  work  of  charity 
before  he  next  wrote  of  Barnaby  Fudge,  but  he 
was  fetching  up  his  lee-way  lazily.  “ I am  get- 
ting on  ” (29th  of  April)  “ very  slowly.  I want 
to  stick  to  the  story ; and  the  fear  of  committing 
myself,  because  of  the  impossibility  of  trying 
back  or  altering  a syllable,  makes  it  much  harder 
than  it  looks.  It  was  too  bad  of  me  to  give  you 
the  trouble  of  cutting  the  number,  but  I knew 
so  well  you  would  do  it  in  the  right  places.  For 
what  Harley  would  call  the  ‘ onward  work  ’ I 
really  think  I have  some  famous  thoughts.” 
There  is  an  interval  of  a month  before  the  next 
allusion.  “ Solomon’s  expression  ” (3rd  of  June) 
“ I meant  to  be  one  of  those  strong  ones  to 
which  strong  circumstances  give  birth  in  the 
commonest  minds.  Deal  with  it  as  you  like. 
....  Say  what  you  please  of  Gordon  ” (I  had 
objected  to  some  points  in  his  view  of  this  mad- 
man, stated  much  too  favourably  as  I thought), 
“ he  must  have  been  at  heart  a kind  man,  and  a 
lover  of  the  despised  and  rejected,  after  his  own 
fashion.  He  lived  upon  a small  income,  and 
always  within  it ; was  known  to  relieve  the 
necessities  of  many  people ; exposed  in  his 
place  the  corrupt  attempt  of  a minister  to  buy 
him  out  of  Parliament ; and  did  great  charities 
in  Newgate.  He  always  spoke  on  the  people’s 
side,  and  tried  against  his  muddled  brains  to 
expose  the  profligacy  of  both  parties.  He  never 
got  anything  by  his  madness,  and  never  sought 
it.  The  wildest  and  most  raging  attacks  of  the 
time,  allow  him  these  merits  : and  not  to  let 
him  have  ’em  in  their  full  extent,  remembering 
in  what  a (politically)  wicked  time  he  lived,  would 
lie  upon  my  conscience  heavily.  The  libel  he 
was  imprisoned  for  when  he  died,  was  on  the 
queen  of  France  : and  the  French  government 


interested  themselves  warmly  to  procure  his  re- 
lease— which  I think  they  might  have  done,  but 
for  Lord  Grenville.”  I was  more  successful  in 
the  counsel  I gave  against  a fancy  he  had  at  this 
part  of  the  story,  that  he  would  introduce  as 
actors  in  the  Gordon  riots  three  splendid  fellows 
who  should  order,  lead,  control,  and  be  obeyed 
as  natural  guides  of  the  crowd  in  that  delirious 
time,  and  who  should  turn  out,  when  all  was 
over,  to  have  broken  out  from  Bedlam : but 
though  he  saw  the  unsoundness  of  this,  he  could 
not  so  readily  see,  in  Gordon’s  case,  the  danger 
of  taxing  ingenuity  to  ascribe  a reasonable 
motive  to  acts  of  sheer  insanity.  The  feeblest 
parts  of  the  book  are  those  in  which  Lord  George 
and  his  secretary  appear. 

He  left  for  Scotland  after  the  middle  of  June, 
but  he  took  work  with  him.  “You  may  sup- 
pose,” he  wrote  from  Edinburgh  on  the  30th,  “ I 
have  not  done  much  work — but  by  Friday 
night’s  post  from  here  I hope  to  send  the  first 
long  chapter  of  a number  and  both  the  illustra- 
tions ; from  Loch-earn  on  Tuesday  night,  the 
closing  chapter  of  that  number ; from  the  samfe 
place  on  Thursday  night,  the  first  long  chapter 
of  another,  with  both  the  illustrations;  and,  from 
some  place  which  no  man  ever  spelt  but  which 
sounds  like  Ballyhoolish,on  Saturday,  the  closing 
chapter  of  that  number,  which  will  leave  us 
all  safe  till  I return  to  town.”  Nine  days  later 
he  wrote  from  “ Ballechelish “ I have  done 
all  I can  or  need  do  in  the  way  of  Barnaby 
until  I come  home,  and  the  story  is  pro- 
gressing (I  hope  you  will  think)  to  good 
strong  interest.  I have  left  it,  I think,  at 
an  exciting  point,  with  a good  dawning  of  the 
riots.  In  the  first  of  the  two  numbers  I 
have  written  since  I have  been  away,  I forget 
whether  the  blind  man,  in  speaking  to  Barnaby 
about  riches,  tells  him  they  are  to  be  found  in 
crowds.  If  I have  not  actually  used  that  word, 
will  you  introduce  it?  A perusal  of  the  proof 
of  the  following  number  (70)  will  show  you  how, 
and  why.”  “ Have  you,”  he  wrote,  shortly  after 
his  return  (29th  July),  “ seen  no.  71?  I thought 
there  was  a good  glimpse  of  a crowd,  from  a 
window,  eh?”  He  had  now  taken  thoroughly 
to  the  interest  of  his  closing  chai)ters,  and  felt 
more  than  ever  the  constraints  of  his  form  of 
publication.  “ I am  warming  up  very  much  ” 
(on  the  5th  of  August  from  Broadstairs)  “ about 
Barnaby.  Oh  1 If  I only  had  him,  from  this 
time  to  the  end,  in  monthly  numbers.  N'im- 
porte ! I hope  the  interest  will  be  pretty  strong 
— and  in  every  number,  stronger.”  Six  da)’s 
later,  from  the  same  place  : “ I was  always  sure 
I could  make  a good  thing  of  Barnaby,  and  1 


BARNAB  Y R UDGE. 


think  you’ll  find  that  it  comes  out  strong  to  the 
last  word.  I have  another  number  ready,  all 
but  two  slips.  Don’t  fear  for  young  Chester, 
d'he  time  hasn’t  come— there  we  go  again,  you 
see,  with  the  weekly  delays.  I am  in  great 
heart  and  spirits  with  the  story,  and  with  the 
prospect  of  having  time  to  think  before  I go  on 
again.”  A month’s  interval  followed,  and  what 
occupied  it  will  be  described  shortly.  On  the 
nth  of  September  he  wrote ; “ I have  just  burnt  ■ 
into  Newgate,  and  am  going  in  the  next  number 
to  tear  the  prisoners  out  by  the  hair  of  their 
heads.  The  number  which  gets  into  the  jail 
you’ll  have  in  proof  by  Tuesday.”  This  was 
followed  up  a week  later  : “ I have  let  all  the 
prisoners  out  of  Newgate,  burnt  down  Lord 
Mansfield’s,  and  played  the  very  devil.  Another 
number  will  finish  the  fires,  and  help  us  on 
towards  the  end.  I feel  quite  smoky  when  I am 
at  work.  I want  elbow-room  terribly.”  To 
this  trouble,  graver  supervened  at  his  return,  a 
serious  personal  sickness  not  the  least ; but  he 
bore  up  gallantly,  and  I had  never  better  occa- 
sion than  now  to  observe  his  quiet  endurance  of 
pain,  how  little  he  thought  of  himself  where 
the  sense  of  self  is  commonly  supreme,  and  the 
manful  duty  with  which  everything  was  done 
that,  ailing  as  he  was,  he  felt  it  necessary  to  do. 
He  was  still  in  his  sick-room  (22nd  of  October) 
when  he  wrote : “ I hope  I shan’t  leave  off 
any  more,  now,  until  I have  finished  Barnaby.” 
Three  days  after  that,  he  was  busying  himself 
eagerly  for  others ; and  on  the  2nd  of  November 
the  printers  received  the  close  of  Barnaby  Rudge. 

This  tale  was  Dickens’s  first  attempt  out  of 
the  sphere  of  the  life  of  the  day  and  its  actual 
manners.  Begun  during  the  progress  of  Oliver 
Twist,  it  had  been  for  some  time  laid  aside  ; the 
form  it  ultimately  took  had  been  comprised  only 
partially  within  its  first  design ; and  the  story  in 
its  finished  shape  presented  strongly  a special 
purpose,  the  characteristic  of  all  but  his  very 
earliest  writings.  Its  scene  is  laid  at  the  time 
when  the  incessant  execution  of  men  and  women, 
comparatively  innocent,  disgraced  every  part  of 
the  country ; demoralizing  thousands,  whom  it 
also  prepared  for  the  scaffold.  In  those  days 
the  thett  of  a few  rags  from  a bleaching  ground, 
or  the  abstraction  of  a roll  of  ribbons  from  a 
counter,  was  visited  with  the  penalty  of  blood  ; 
and  such  laws  brutalized  both  their  ministers 
and  victims.  It  was  the  time,  too,  when  a false 
religious  outcry  brought  with  it  appalling  guilt 
and  misery.  Such  vices  leave  more  behind 
them  than  the  first  forms  assumed,  and  involve  a 
lesson  sufficiently  required  to  justify  a writer  in 
dealing  with  them.  There  were  also  others 
Life  of  Charles  Dickens,  6. 


69 


grafted  on  them.  In  Barnaby  himself  it  was 
desired  to  show  what  sources  of  comfort  there 
might  be,  for  the  patient  and  cheerful  heart,  in 
even  the  worst  of  all  human  afflictions;  and  in 
the  hunted  life  of  the  outcast  father,  whose  crime 
had  entailed  not  that  affliction  only,  but  other 
more  fearful  wretchedness,  we  have  as  powerful 
a picture  as  any  in  his  writings  of  the  inevitable 
and  unfathomable  consequences  of  sin.  It  was 
the  late  Lord  Lytton’s  opinion  that  Dickens  had 
done  nothing  finer  in  point  of  art  than  this. 
But,  as  the  story  went  on,  it  was  incident  to 
such  designs  that  what  had  been  accomplished 
in  its  predecessor  could  hardly  be  attained  here, 
in  singleness  of  purpose,  unity  of  idea,  or  har- 
mony of  treatment;  and  other  defects  supervened 
in  the  management  of  the  plot.  The  interest 
with  which  the  tale  begins,  has  ceased  to  be  its 
interest  before  the  close ; and  what  has  chiefly 
taken  the  reader’s  fancy  at  the  outset,  almost 
wholly  disappears  in  the  power  and  passion  with 
which,  in  the  later  chapters,  the  great  riots  are  de- 
scribed. So  admirable  is  this  description,  how- 
ever, that  it  would  be  hard  to  have  to  surrender 
it  even  for  a more  perfect  structure  of  fable. 

There  are  few  things  more  masterly  in  any  of 
his  books.  From  the  first  low  mutterings  of  the 
storm  to  its  last  terrible  explosion,  the  frantic 
outbreak  of  popular  ignorance  and  rage  is  de- 
picted with  unabated  power.  The  aimlessness 
of  idle  mischief  by  which  the  ranks  of  the  rioters 
are  swelled  at  the  beginning;  the  recklessness 
induced  by  the  monstrous  impunity  allowed  to 
the  early  excesses ; the  sudden  spread  of  drunken 
guilt  into  every  haunt  of  poverty,  ignorance,  or 
mischief  in  the  wicked  old  city,  where  such  rich 
materials  of  crime  lie  festering ; the  wild  action  of 
its  poison  on  all,  without  scheme  or  plan  of  any 
kind,  who  come  within  its  reach ; the  horrors 
that  are  more  bewildering  for  so  complete  an 
absence  of  purpose  in  them ; and,  when  all  is 
done,  the  misery  found  to  have  been  self-in- 
flieted  in  every  cranny  and  corner  of  London, 
as  if  a plague  had  swept  over  the  streets : these  are 
features  in  the  picture  of  an  actual  occurrence,  to 
which  the  manner  of  the  treatment  gives  extra- 
ordinary force  and  meaning.  Nor,  in  the  sequel, 
is  there  anything  displayed  with  more  profitable 
vividness,  than  the  law’s  indiscriminate  cruelty  at 
last  in  contrast  with  its  cowardly  indifference  at 
first ; while,  among  the  casual  touches  lighting  up 
the  scene  with  flashes  of  reality  that  illumine  every 
part  of  it,  may  be  instanced  the  discovery,  in  the 
quarter  from  which  screams  for  succour  are 
loudest  when  Newgate  is  supposed  to  be  acci- 
dentally on  fire,  of  four  men  who  were  certain  in 
any  case  to  have  perished  on  the  drop  next  day. 

414 


— - 

70  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

The  story,  which  has  unusually  careful  writing 
in  it,  and  much  manly  upright  thinking,  has  not 
so  many  people  eagerly  adopted  as  of  kin  by 
everybody,  as  its  predecessors  are  famous  for ; 
but  it  has  yet  a fair  proportion  of  such  as  take 
! solid  form  within  the  mind,  and  keep  hold  of 
the  memory.  To  these  belong  in  an  especial 
degree  Gabriel  Varden  and  his  household,  on 
whom  are  lavished  all  the  writer’s  fondness, 
and  not  a little  of  his  keenest  humour.  The 
honest  locksmith  with  his  jovial  jug,  and  the 
tink-tink-tink  of  his  pleasant  nature  making 
cheerful  music  out  of  steel  and  iron  ; the  buxom 
wife,  with  her  plaguy  tongue  that  makes  every 
one  wretched  whom  her  kindly  disposition  would 
desire  to  make  happy ; the  good-hearted  plump 
little  Dolly,  coquettish  minx  of  a daughter, 
with  all  she  suflers  and  inflicts  by  her  fickle 
winning  ways,  and  her  small  self-admiring  vani- 
ties ; and  Miggs  the  vicious  and  slippery,  acid, 
amatory,  and  of  uncomfortable  figure,  sower  of 
family  discontents  and  discords,  who  swears  all 
the  while  she  wouldn’t  make  or  meddle  with  ’em 
“ not  for  a annual  gold  mine  and  found  in  tea 
and  sugar — there  is  not  much  social  painting 
anywhere  with  a better  domestic  moral,  than  in 
all  these ; and  a nice  propriety  of  feeling  and 
thought  regulates  the  use  of  such  satire  through- 
out. No  one  knows  more  exactly  how  far  to 
go  with  that  formidable  weapon ; or  understands 
better  that  what  satirizes  everything,  in  effect 
satirizes  nothing. 

Another  excellent  group  is  that  which  the 
story  opens  with,  in  the  quaint  old  kitchen  of 
the  Maypole;  John  Willett  and  his  friends, 
genuinely  comic  creations  all  of  them.  Then 
we  have  Barnaby  and  his  raven : the  light- 
hearted idiot,  as  unconscious  of  guilt  as  of  suf- 
fering, and  happy  with  no  sense  but  of  the  influ- 
ences of  nature ; and  the  grave  sly  bird,  with 
sufficient  sense  to  make  himself  as  unhappy  as 
rascally  habits  will  make  the  human  animal. 
There  is  poor  brutish  Hugh,  too,  loitering  lazily 
outside  the  Maypole  door,  with  a storm  of  pas- 
sions in  him  raging  to  be  let  loose ; already  the 
scaffold’s  withered  fruit,  as  he  is  doomed  to  be 
its  ripe  offering ; and  though  with  all  the  worst 
instincts  of  the  savage,  yet  not  without  also  some 
of  the  best.  Still  farther  out  of  kindly  nature’s 
pitying  reach  lurks  the  worst  villain  of  the  scene  : 
with  this  sole  claim  to  consideration,  that  it  was 
by  constant  contact  with  the  filthiest  instrument 
of  law  and  state  he  had  become  the  mass  of 
'moral  filth  he  is.  Mr.  Dennis  the  hangman  is  a 
portrait  that  Hogarth  would  have  painted  with 
the  same  wholesome  severity  of  satire  employed 
upon  it  in  Barnaby  Fudge. 

X. 

IN  EDINBURGH. 

_ 1841. 

MONO  the  occurrences  of  the  year, 
apart  from  the  tale  he  was  writing, 
birth  of  his  fourth  child  and 
L second  son  has  been  briefly  men- 
■ tioned.  “ I mean  to  call  the  boy 

Edgar,”  he  wrote  the  day  after  he 
was  born  (9th  February),  “ a good 
honest  Saxon  name,  I think.”  He 
changed  his  mind  in  a few  days,  however,  on 
resolving  to  ask  Landor  to  be  godfather.  This 
intention,  as  soon  as  formed,  he  announced  to 
our  excellent  old  friend ; telling  him  it  would 
give  the  child  something  to  boast  of,  to  be  called 
Walter  Landor,  and  that  to  call  him  so  would  do 
his  own  heart  good.  For,  as  to  himself,  whatever 
realities  had  gone  out  of  the  ceremony  of  chris- 
tening, the  meaning  still  remained  in  it  of  en- 
abling him  to  form  a relationship  with  friends 
he  most  loved  : and  as  to  the  boy,  he  held  that 
to  give  him  a name  to  be  proud  of  was  to  give 
him  also  another  reason  for  doing  nothing  un- 
worthy or  untrue  when  he  came  to  be  a man. 
Walter,  alas  ! only  lived  to  manhood.  He  ob- 
tained a military  cadetship  through  the  kindness 
of  Miss  Coutts,  and  died  at  Calcutta  on  the  last 
day  of  1863,  in  his  23rd  year. 

The  interest  taken  by  this  distinguished  lady 
in  Dickens  and  his  family  began,  as  I have  said, 
at  an  earlier  date  than  even  this  ; and  I remem- 
ber his  pleasure,  while  Oliver  Twist  was  going 
on,  at  her  father’s  mention  of  him  in  a speech 
at  Birmingham,  for  his  advocacy  of  the  cause  of 
the  poor.  Whether  to  the  new  poor-law  Sir 
Francis  Burdett  objected  as  strongly  as  we  have 
seen  that  Dickens  did,  as  well  as  many  other 
excellent  men,  who  forgot  the  atrocities  of  the 
system  it  disjAaced  in  their  indignation  at  the 
needless  harslmess  with  which  it  was  worked  at 
the  outset,  I have  not  at  hand  the  means  of 
knowing.  But  certainly  this  continued  to  be 
strongly  the  feeling  of  Dickens,  who  exulted  at 
nothing  so  much  as  at  any  misadventure  to  the 
whigs  in  connection  with  it.  “ How  often  used 
Black  and  I,”  he  wrote  to  me  in  April,  “ to 
quarrel  about  the  effect  of  the  poor-law  bilb! 
Walter  comes  in  u])on  theory.  Sec  whether  the 
whigs  go  out  upon  it.”  It  was  the  strong  desire 
he  had  to  make  himself  heartl  upon  it,  even  in 
])arliament,  that  led  him  not  immediately  to  turn 
aside  from  a proposal,  now  jnivatcly  made  by 
some  of  the  magnates  of  Reading,  to  bring  him 
in  for  that  borough  ; but  the  notion  was  soon 

IN  EDINBURGH. 


dismissed,  as,  on  its  revival  more  than  once  in 
later  times,  it  continued  very  wisely  to  be.  His 
opinions  otherwise  were  e.xtremely  radical  at 
present,  as  will  be  apparent  shortly ; and  he  did 
not  at  all  relish  Peel’s  majority  of  one  when  it 
came  soon  after,  and  unseated  the  whigs.  It 
was  just  now,  I may  add,  he  greatly  enjoyed  a 
quiet  setting-down  of  Moore  by  Rogers  at  Sir 
Francis  Burdett’s  table,  for  talking  exaggerated 
toryism.  So  debased  was  the  house  of  commons 
by  reform,  said  Moore,  that  a Burke,  if  you 
could  find  him,  would  not  be  listened  to.  “ No 
such  thing,  Tommy,”  said  Rogers ; ‘■‘find your- 
self, and  they’d  listen  even  to  you.” 

This  was  not  many  days  before  he  hinted  to 
me  an  intention  soon  to  be  carried  out  in  a 
rather  memorable  manner.  “ I have  done  no- 
thing to-day”  (i8th  March;  we  had  bought 
books  together,  the  day  before,  at  Tom  Hill’s 
sale)  “ but  cut  the  Swift,  looking  into  it  with  a 
delicious  laziness  in  all  manner  of  delightful 
places,  and  put  poor  Tom’s  books  away.  I had 
a letter  from  Edinburgh  this  morning,  announc- 
ing that  Jeffrey’s  visit  to  London  will  be  the 
week  after  next ; telling  me  that  he  drives  about 
Edinburgh  declaring  there  has  been  ‘ nothing  so 
good  as  Nell  since  Cordelia,’  which  he  writes 
also  to  all  manner  of  people ; and  informing  me 
of  a desire  in  that  romantic  town  to  give  me 
greeting  and  welcome.  For  this  and  other  rea- 
sons I am  disposed  to  make  Scotland  my  des- 
tination in  June  rather  than  Ireland.  Think, 
think,  meantime  (here  are  ten  good  weeks), 
whether  you  couldn’t,  by  some  effort  worthy  of 
the  owner  of  the  gigantic  helmet,  go  with  us. 
Think  of  such  a fortnight — York,  Carlisle,  Ber- 
wick, your  own  Borders,  Edinburgh,  Rob  Roy’s 
country,  railroads,  cathedrals,  country  inns, 
Arthur’s-seat,  lochs,  glens,  and  home  by  sea. 
DO  think  of  this,  seriously  at  leisure.”  It  was 
very  tempting,  but  not  to  be. 

Early  in  ,\pril  Jeffrey  came,-  many  feasts  and 
entertainments  welcoming  him,  of  which  he  very 
sparingly  partook ; and  before  he  left,  the  visit 
to  Scotland  in  June  was  all  duly  arranged,  to  be 
initiated  by  the  splendid  welcome  of  a public 
dinner  in  Edinburgh,  with  Lord  Jeffrey  himself 
in  the  chair.  “Willy  Allan,”  the  celebrated 
artist,  had  come  up  meanwhile,  with  increas- 
ing note  of  preparation;  and  it  was  while  we 
were  all  regretting  Wilkie’s  absence  abroad,  and 
Dickens  with  warrantable  pride  was  saying 
how  surely  the  great  painter  would  have  gone 
to  this  dinner,  that  the  shock  of  his  sudden 
death  * came,  and  there  was  left  but  the  sor- 

* Dickens  refused  to  believe  it  at  first.  “My  heart 
assures  me  Wilkie  liveth,”  he  wrote.  “ He  is  the  sort 


7i 


rowful  satisfaction  of  honouring  his  memory. 
There  was  one  other  change  before  the  day. 

“ I heard  from  Edinburgh  this  morning,”  he 
wrote  on  the  15th  of  June.  “ Jeffrey  is  not  well 
enough  to  take  the  chair,  so  Wilson  does.  I 
think  under  all  circumstances  of  politics,  ac- 
quaintance, and  Edinburgh  Review,  that  it’s 
much  better  as  it  is — Don’t  you?” 

His  first  letter  from  Edinburgh,  where  he 
and  Mrs.  Dickens  had  taken  up  quarters  at  the 
Royal-hotel  on  their  arrival  the  previous  night, 
is  dated  the  23rd  of  June.  “ I have  been  this 
morning  to  the  Parliament-house,  and  am  now 
introduced  (I  hope)  to  everybody  in  Edinburgh. 
The  hotel  is  perfectly  besieged,  and  I have  been 
forced  to  take  refuge  in  a sequestered  apartment 
at  the  end  of  a long  passage,  wherein  I write  this 
letter.  They  talk  of  300  at  the  dinner.  We  are 
very  well  off  in  point  of  rooms,  having  a hand- 
some sitting-room,  another  next  to  it  for  Clock 
purposes,  a spacious  bedroom,  and  large  dress- 
ing-room adjoining.  The  castle  is  in  front  of 
the  windows,  and  the  view  noble.  There  was  a 
supper  ready  last  night  which  would  have  been 
a dinner  anywhere.”  This  was  his  first  practical 
experience  of  the  honours  his  fame  had  won  for 
him,  and  it  found  him  as  eager  to  receive  as  all 
were  eager  to  give.  Very  interesting  still,  too, 
are  those  who  took  leading  part  in  the  celebra- 
tion ; and,  in  his  pleasant  sketches  of  them, 
there  are  some  once  famous  and  familiar  figures 
not  so  well  known  to  the  present  generation. 
Here,  among  the  first,  are  Wilson  and  Robert- 
son. 

“The  renowned  Peter  Robertson  is  a large, 
portly,  full-faced  man  with  a merry  eye,  and  a 
queer  way  of  looking  under  his  spectacles  which 
is  characteristic  and  pleasant.  He  seems  a very 
warm-hearted  earnest  man  too,  and  I felt  quite 
at  home  with  him  forthwith.  Walking  up  and 
down  the  hall  of  the  courts  of  law  (which  was 
full  of  advocates,  writers  to  the  signet,  clerks, 
and  idlers)  was  a tall,  burly,  handsome  man  of 
eight  and  fifty,  with  a gait  like  O’Connell’s,  the 
bluest  eye  you  can  imagine,  apd  long  hair — 
longer  than  mine — falling  down  in  a wild  way 
under  the  broad  brim  of  his  hat.  He  had  on  a 
surtout  coat,  a blue  checked  shirt;  the  collar 
standing  up,  and  kept  in  its  place  with  a wisp  of 
black  neckerchief;  no  waistcoat;  and  a large  j 
pocket-handkerchief  thrust  into  his  breast,  which 
was  all  broad  and  open.  At  his  heels  followed 
a wiry,  sharp-eyed,  shaggy  devil  of  a terrier, 
dogging  his  steps  as  he  went  slashing  up  and 
down,  now  with  one  man  beside  him,  now  with 

of  man  who  will  be  VERY  old  when  he  dies  ” — and  cer- 
tainly one  would  have  said  so. 


72 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DLCKENS. 


another,  and  now  quite  alone,  but  always  at  a 
fast,  rolling  pace,  with  his  head  in  the  air,  and 
his  eyes  as  wide  open  as  he  could  get  them.  I 
guessed  it  was  Wilson,  and  it  was.  A bright, 
clear-complexioned,  mountain-looking  fellow,  he 
looks  as  though  he  had  just  come  down  from 
the  Highlands,  and  had  never  in  his  life  taken 
pen  in  hand.  But  he  has  had  an  attack  of 
paralysis  in  his  right  arm,  within  this  month. 
He  winced  when  I shook  hands  with  him  ; and 
once  or  twice  when  we  were  walking  up  and 
down,  slipped  as  if  he  had  stumbled  on  a piece 
of  orange-peel.  He  is  a great  fellow  lo  look  at, 
and  to  talk  to ; and,  if  you  could  divest  your 
mind  of  the  actual  Scott,  is  just  the  figure  you 
would  put  in  his  place.” 

Nor  have  the  most  ordinary  incidents  of  the 
visit  any  lack  of  interest  for  us  now,  in  so  far  as 
they  help  to  complete  the  picture  of  himself. 
“ Allan  has  been  squiring  me  about,  all  the 
morning.  He  and  Fletcher  have  gone  to  a 
meeting  of  the  dinner-stewards,  and  I take  the 
opportunity  of  writing  to  you.  They  dine  with 
us  to-day,  and  we  are  going  to-night  to  the 
theatre.  MTan  is  playing  there.  I mean  to 
leave  a card  for  him  before  evening.  We  are 
engaged  for  every  day  of  our  stay,  already ; but 
the  people  I have  seen  are  so  very  hearty  and 
warm  in  their  manner  that  much  of  the  horror  of 
lionization  gives  way  before  it.  I am  glad  to 
find  that  they  propose  giving  me  for  a toast  on 
Friday  the  Memory  of  Wilkie.  I should  have 
liked  it  better  than  anything,  if  I could  have 
made  my  choice.  Communicate  all  particulars 
to  Mac.  I would  to  God  you  were  both  here. 
Do  dine  together  at  the  Gray’s-inn  on  Friday, 
and  think  of  me.  If  I don’t  drink  my  first  glass  of 
wine  to  you,  may  my  pistols  miss  fire,  and  my  mare 
slip  her  shoulder.  All  sorts  of  regard  from  Kate. 
She  has  gone  with  Miss  Allan  to  see  the  house  she 
was  born  in,  &c.  Write  me  soon,  and  long,  &c.” 
His  next  letter  was  written  the  morning  after 
the  dinner,  on  Saturday  the  26th  June.  “The 
great  event  is  over;  and  being  gone,  I am  a man 
again.  It  was  the  most  brilliant  affair  you  can 
conceive  ; the  completest  success  possible,  from 
first  to  last.  The  room  was  crammed,  and  more 
than  seventy  applicants  for  tickets  were  of  ne- 
cessity refused  yesterday.  Wilson  was  ill,  but 
plucked  up  like  a lion,  and  spoke  famously.  I 
send  you  a paper  herewith,  but  the  report  is 
dismal  in  the  extreme.  'I’hey  say  there  will  be 
a better  one — I don’t  know  where  or  when. 
Should  there  be,  I will  send  it  to  you.  I think 
(ahem  !)  that  I spoke  rather  well.  It  was  an 
excellent  room,  and  both  the  subjects  (Wilson 
and  Scottish  Literature,  and  the  Memory  of 


Wilkie)  were  good  to  go  upon.  There  were 
nearly  two  hundred  ladies  present.  The  place 
is  so  contrived  that  the  cross  table  is  raised 
enormously : much  above  the  heads  of  people 
sitting  below  : and  the  effect  on  first  coming  in 
(to  me,  I mean)  was  rather  tremendous.  I was 
quite  self-possessed  however,  and,  notwithstand- 
ing the  enthoosemoosy,  which  was  very  startling, 
as  cool  as  a cucumber.  I wish  to  God  you  had 
been  there,  as  it  is  impossible  for  the  ‘ dis- 
tinguished guest  ’ to  describe  the  scene.  It  beat 
all  natur’ ” 

Here  was  the  close  of  his  letter.  “ I have 
been  expecting  every  day  to  hear  from  you,  and 
not  hearing  mean  to  make  this  the  briefest 
epistle  possible.  We  start  next  Sunday  (that’s 
to-morrow  week).  We  are  going  out  to  Jeffrey’s 
to-day  (he  is  very  unwell),  and  return  here  to- 
morrow evening.  If  I don’t  find  a letter  from 
you  when  I come  back,  expect  no  Lights  and 
Shadows  of  Scottish  Life  from  your  indignant 
correspondent.  Murray  the  manager  made  very 
excellent,  tasteful,  and  gentlemanly  mention  of 
Macready,  about  whom  Wilson  had  been  asking 
me  divers  questions  during  dinner.”  “ A hun- 
dred thanks  for  your  letter,”  he  writes  four  days 
later.  “ I read  it  this  morning  with  the  greatest 
pleasure  and  delight,  and  answer  it  with  ditto, 
ditto.  Where  shall  I begin— about  my  darlings  ? 
I am  delighted  with  Charley’s  precocity.  He 
takes  arter  his  father,  he  does.  God  bless  them, 
you  can’t  imagine  {you!  how  can  you?)  how 
much  I long  to  see  them.  It  makes  me  quite 

so’rrowful  to  think  of  them Yesterday, 

sir,  the  lord  provost,  council,  and  magistrates 
voted  me  by  acclamation  the  freedom  of  the 
city,  in  testimony  (I  quote  the  letter  just  received 
from  ‘James  Forrest,  lord  provost’)  ‘of  the 
sense  entertained  by  them  of  your  distinguished 
abilities  as  an  author.’  1 acknowledged  this 
morning  in  appropriate  terms  the  honour  they 
had  done  me,  and  through  me  the  pursuit  to  which 
I was  devoted.  It  is  handsome,  is  it  not?” 

The  parchment  scroll  of  the  city-freedom, 
recording  the  grounds  on  which  it  was  voted, 
hung  framed  in  his  study  to  the  last,  and  was 
one  of  his  valued  possessions.  Answering  some 
question  of  mine,  he  told  me  further  as  to  the 
speakers,  and  gave  some  amusing  glimpses  of 
the  party-spirit  which  still  at  that  time  ran  high 
in  the  capital  of  the  north. 

“The  men  who  spoke  at  the  dinner  were  all 
the  most  rising  men  here,  and  chiellyat  the  Bar. 
They  were  all,  alternately,  whigs  and  tories ; 
with  some  lew  radicals,  such  as  Gordon,  who 
gave  the  memory  of  Burns.  He  is  IVilson’s  son- 
in-law  and  the  lord  advocate’s  nephew — a very 


IN  EDINBURGH. 


masterly  speaker  indeed,  who  ouglit  to  become 
a distinguished  man.  Neaves,  who  gave  the 
other  poets,  a little  too  lawyer-like  for  my  taste, 
is  a great  gun  in  the  courts.  Mr.  Primrose  is 
Lord  Rosebery’s  son.  Adam  Black,  the  pub- 
lisher as  you  know.  Dr.  Alison,  a very  popular 
friend  of  the  poor.  Robertson  you  know. 
.•Mian  you  know.  Colquhoun  is  an  advocate. 
All  these  men  were  selected  for  the  toasts  as 
being  crack  speakers,  known  men,  and  opposed 
to  each  other  very  strongly  in  politics.  For  this 
reason,  the  professors  and  so  forth  who  sat  upon 
the  platform  about  me  made  no  speeches  and 
had  none  assigned  them.  I felt  it  was  very 
remarkable  to  see  such  a number  of  grey-headed 
men  gathered  about  my  brown  flowing  locks ; 
and  it  struck  most  of  those  who  were  present 
very  forcibly.  The  judges,  solicitor-general, 
lord-advocate,  and  so  forth,  were  all  here  to  call, 
the  day  after  our  arrival.  The  judges  never  go 
to  public  dinners  in  Scotland.  Lord  Meadow- 
bank  alone  broke  through  the  custom,  and  none 
of  his  successors  have  imitated  him.  It  will 
give  you  a good  notion  of  party  to  hear  that  the 
solicitor-general  and  lord-advocate  refused  to  go, 
though  they  had  previously  engaged,  unless  the 
croupier  or  the  chairman  were  a whig.  Both 
(Wilson  and  Robertson)  were  tories,  simply  be- 
cause, Jeffrey  e.xcepted,  no  whig  could  be  found 
who  was  adapted  to  the  office.  The  solicitor 
laid  strict  injunctions  on  Napier  not  to  go  if  a 
whig  were  not  in  office.  No  whig  was,  and  he 
stayed  away.  I think  this  is  good — bearing  in 
mind  that  all  the  old  whigs  of  Edinburgh  were 
cracking  their  throats  in  the  room.  They  give 
out  that  they  were  ill,  and  the  lord-advocate  did 
actually  lie  in  bed  all  the  afternoon ; but  this  is 
the  real  truth,  and  one  of  the  judges  told  it  me 
with  great  glee.  It  seems  they  couldn’t  quite 
trust  Wilson  or  Robertson,  as  they  thought ; and 
feared  some  tory  demonstration.  Nothing  of  the 
kind  took  place ; and  ever  since,  these  men  have 
been  the  loudest  in  their  praises  of  the  whole  affair.” 
The  close  of  his  letter  tells  us  all  his  engage- 
ments, and  completes  his  grateful  picture  of  the 
hearty  Scottish  welcome.  It  has  also  some  per- 
sonal touches  worth  preserving.  “ A threat 
reached  me  last  night  (they  have  been  hammer- 
ing at  it  in  their  papers,  it  seems,  for  some  time) 
of  a dinner  at  Glasgow.  But  I hope,  having 
circulated  false  rumours  of  my  movements,  to 
get  away  before  they  send  to  me ; and  only  to 
stop  there  on  my  way  home,  to  change  horses 

and  send  to  the  post-office You  will  like 

to  know  how  we  have  been  living.  Here’s  a 
list  of  engagements,  past  and  present.  Wednes- 
day we  dined  at  home,  and  went  incog  to  the 


73 


theatre  at  night,  to  Murray’s  box : the  pieces 
admirably  done,  and  MTan  in  the  Two  Drovers 
quite  wonderful,  and  most  affecting.  Thursday, 
to  Lord  Murray’s  ■,  dinner  and  evening  party. 
Friday,  the  dinner.  Saturday,  to  Jeffrey’s,  a 
beautiful  place  about  three  miles  off”  (Craig- 
crook,  which  at  Lord  Jeffrey’s  invitation  I after- 
wards visited  with  him),  “stop  there  all  night, 
dine  on  Sunday,  and  home  at  eleven.  Monday, 
dine  at  Dr.  Alison’s,  four  miles  off.  Tuesday, 
dinner  and  evening  party  at  Allan’s.  Wednes- 
day, breakfast  with  Napier,  dine  with  Black- 
woods seven  miles  off,  evening  party  at  the 
treasurer’s  of  the  town-council,  supper  with  all 
the  artists  (!  !).  Thursday,  lunch  at  the  solicitor- 
general’s,  dine  at  Lord  Gillies’s,  evening  party  at 
Joseph  Gordon’s,  one  of  Brougham’s  earliest 
supporters.  Friday,  dinner  and  evening  party  at 
Robertson’s.  Saturday,  dine  again  at  Jeffrey’s; 
back  to  the  theatre,  at  half-past  nine  to  the 
moment,  for  public  appearance ; places  all  let, 
&c.  &c.  &c.  Sunday,  off  at  seven  o’clock  in 
the  morning  to  Stirling,  and  then  to  Callender, 
a stage  further.  Next  day,  to  Loch-earn,  and 
pull  up  there  for  three  days,  to  rest  and  work. 
The  moral  of  all  this  is,  that  there  is  no  place 
like  home;  and  that  I thank  God  most  heartily 
for  having  given  me  a quiet  spirit,  and  a heart 
that  won’t  hold  many  people.  I sigh  for  Devon- 
shire-terrace  and  Broadstairs,  for  battledore  and 
shuttlecock;  I want  to  dine  in  a blouse  with 
you  and  Mac  ; and  I feel  Topping’s  merits  more 
acutely  than  I have  ever  done  in  my  life.  On 
Sunday  evening,  the  17th  of  July,  I shall  revisit 
my  household  gods,  please  heaven.  I wish 
the  day  were  here.  For  God’s  sake  be  in  wait- 
ing. I wish  you  and  Mac  would  dine  in  Devon- 
shire-terrace  that  day  with  Fred.  He  has  the 
key  of  the  cellar.  Do.  We  shall  be  at  Inverary 
in  the  Highlands  on  Tuesday  week,  getting  to  it 
through  the  pass  of  Glencoe,  of  which  you  may 
have  heard ! On  Thursday  following  we  shall 
be  at  Glasgow,  where  I shall  hope  to  receive 
your  last  letter  before  we  meet.  At  Inverary, 
too,  I shall  make  sure  of  finding  at  least  one,  at 

the  post-office Little  Allan  is  trying  hard 

for  the  post  of  Queen’s  limner  for  Scotland, 
vacant  by  poor  Wilkie’s  death.  Every  one  is  in 

his  favour  but who  is  jobbing  for  someone 

else.  Appoint  him,  will  you,  and  I’ll  give  up 
the  premier-ship. — How  I breakfasted  to-day  in 
the  house  where  Scott  lived  seven  and  twenty 
years  ; how  I have  made  solemn  pledges  to  write 
about  missing  children  in  the  Edinburgh  Review, 
and  will  do  my  best  to  keep  them  ; how  I have 
declined  to  be  brought  in,  free  gratis  for  nothing 
and  qualified  to  boot,  for  a Scotch  county  that’s 


74 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


going  a begging,  lest  I should  be  thought  to  have 
dined  on  Friday  under  false  pretences;  these, 

with  other  marvels,  shall  be  yours  anon 

I must  leave  off  sharp,  to  get  dressed  and  off 
upon  the  seven  miles  dinner  trip.  Kate’s  affec- 
tionate regards.  My  hearty  loves  to  Mac  and 
Grim.”  Grim  was  another  great  artist  having 
the  same  beginning  to  his  name,  whose  tragic 
studies  had  suggested  an  epithet  quite  inappli- 
cable to  any  of  his  personal  qualities. 

The  narrative  of  the  trip  to  the  Highlands 
must  have  a chapter  to  itself,  and  its  incidents  of 
adventure  and  comedy.  The  latter  chiefly  were 
due  to  the  guide  who  accompanied  him,  a quasi- 
highlander himself,  named  a few  pages  back  as 
Mr.  Kindheart,  whose  real  name  was  Mr.  Angus 
Fletcher,  and  to  whom  it  hardly  needs  that  I should 
give  other  mention  than  will  be  supplied  by  such 
future  notices  of  him  as  his  friend’s  letters  may 
contain.  He  had  much  talent,  but  too  fitful  and 
wayward  to  concentrate  on  a settled  pursuit; 
and  though  at  the  time  we  knew  him  first  he  had 
taken  up  the  profession  of  a sculptor,  he  aban- 
doned it  soon  afterwards.  His  mother,  a woman 
distinguished  by  many  remarkable  qualities, 
lived  now  in  the  English  lake-country;  and  it 
was  no  fault  of  hers  that  her  son  preferred  a 
wandering  life  to  that  of  home.  His  unfitness 
for  an  ordinary  career  was,  perhaps,  the  secret 
of  such  liking  for  him  as  Dickens  had.  Fletcher’s 
eccentricity  and  absurdities,  divided  often  by  the 
thinnest  partition  from  a foolish  extravagance, 
but  occasionally  clever,  and  always  the  genuine 
though  whimsical  outgrowth  of  the  life  he  led, 
had  a curious  charm  for  Dickens.  He  enjoyed 
the  oddity  and  humour;  tolerated  all  the'  rest; 
and  to  none  more  freely  than  to  Kindheart 
during  the  next  few  years,  both  in  Italy  and  in 
England,  opened  his  house  and  hospitality. 


XI. 

IN  THE  HIGHLANDS. 

1841. 

ROM  Loch-earn  head  Dickens  wrote 
on  Monday  the  5th  of  July,  having 
reached  it,  “ wet  through,”  at  four 
that  afternoon.  “ Having  had  a 
- great  deal  to  do  in  a crowded  house 
on  “Saturday  night  at  the  theatre,  we 
left  Edinburgh  yesterday  morning  at  half 
past  seven,  and  travelled,  with  Fletcher 
for  our  guide,  to  a place  called  Stewart’s-hotel, 
nine  miles  further  than  Callender.  We  had 


neglected  to  order  rooms,  and  were  obliged  to 
make  a sitting-room  of  our  own  bed-chamber ; in 
which  my  genius  for  stowing  furniture  away  was 
of  the  very  greatest  service.  Fletcher  slept  in  a 
kennel  with  three  panes  of  glass  in  it,  which 
formed  part  and  parcel  of  a window ; the  other 
three  panes  whereof  belonged  to  a man  who 
slept  on  the  other  side  of  the  partition.  He 
told  me  this  morning  that  he  had  had  a night- 
mare all  night,  and  had  screamed  horribly,  he 
knew.  The  stranger,  as  you  may  suppose, 
hired  a gig  and  went  off  at  full  gallop  with  the 
first  glimpse  of  daylight.  Being  very  tired  (for  we 
had  not  had  more  than  three  hours’  sleep  on  the 
previous  night)  we  lay  till  ten  this  morning ; and 
at  half  past  eleven  went  through  the  Trossachs 
to  Loch-katrine,  where  I walked  from  the  hotel 
after  tea  last  night.  It  is  impossible  to  say  what 
a glorious  scene  it  was.  It  rained  as  it  never 
does  rain  anywhere  but  here.  We  conveyed 
Kate  up  a rocky  pass  to  go  and  see  the  island 
of  the  Lady  of  the  Lake,  but  she  gave  in  after 
the  first  five  minutes,  and  we  left  her,  very  pic- 
turesque and  uncomfortable,  with  Tom  ” (the 
servant  they  had  brought  with  them  from 
Devonshire-terrace)  “ holding  an  umbrella  over 
her  head,  while  we  climbed  on.  When  we  came 
back,  she  had  gone  into  the  carriage.  We  were 
wet  through  to  the  skin,  and  came  on  in  that 
state  four  and  twenty  miles.  Fletcher  is  very 
good  natured,  and  of  extraordinary  use  in  these 
outlandish  parts.  His  habit  of  going  into 
kitchens  and  bars,  disconcerting  at  Broadstairs, 
is  here  of  great  service.  Not  expecting  us  till 
six,  they  hadn’t  lighted  our  fires  when  we  arrived 
here ; and  if  you  had  seen  him  (with  whom  the 
responsibility  of  the  omission  rested)  running  in 
and  out  of  the  sitting-room  and  the  two  bed- 
rooms with  a great  pair  of  bellows,  with  which 
he  distractedly  blew  each  of  the  fires  out  in 
turn,  you  would  have  died  of  laughing.  He 
had  on  his  head  a great  highland  cap,  on  his 
back  a white  coat,  and  cut  such  a figure  as  even 

the  inimitable  can’t  depicter 

“ The  inns,  inside  and  out,  are  the  queerest 
places  imaginable.  From  the  road,  this  one,” 
at  Loch-earn-head,  “ looks  like  a white  wall,  with 
windows  in  it  by  mistake.  We  have  a good 
sitting-room  though,  on  the  first  floor ; as  large 
(but  not  as  lofty)  as  my  study.  The  bed-rooms 
are  of  that  size  which  renders  it  impossible  for 
you  to  move,  after  you  have  taken  your  boots 
off,  without  chipping  pieces  out  of  your  legs. 
There  isn’t  a basin  in  the  Highlands  which  will 
hold  my  face ; not  a drawer  which  will  open 
after  you  have  put  your  clothes  in  it ; not  a 
water-bottle  capacious  enough  to  wet  your  tooth- 


IN  THE  HIGHLANDS. 


brush.  The  huts  are  wretched  and  miserable 
beyond  all  description.  The  food  (for  those 
who  can  pay  for  it)  ‘ not  bad,’  as  M.  would  say ; 
oatcake,  mutton,  hotch  potch,  trout  from  the 
loch,  small  beer  bottled,  marmalade,  and  whiskey. 
Of  the  last-named  article  I have  taken  about  a 
pint  to-day.  The  weather  is  what  they  call 
‘ soft  ’ — whicli  means  that  the  sky  is  a vast  water- 
spout that  never  leaves  oft'  emptying  itself;  and 

the  liquor  has  no  more  effect  than  water 

(I  am  going  to  work  to-morrow,  and  hope  before 
leaving  here  to  write  you  again.  The  elections 
have  been  sad  work  indeed.  That  they  should 
return  Sibthorp  and  reject  Bulwer,  is  by  Heaven, 

a national  disgrace I don’t  wonder  the 

devil  flew  over  Lincoln.  The  people  were  far 
too  addle-headed,  even  for  him.)  ....  I don’t 
bore  you  with  accounts  of  Ben  this  and  that, 
and  Lochs  of  all  sorts  of  names,  but  this  is 
a wonderful  region.  The  way  the  mists  were 
stalking  about  to-day,  and  the  clouds  lying  down 
upon  the  hills ; the  deep  glens,  the  high  rocks, 
the  rushing  waterfalls,  and  the  roaring  rivers 
down  in  deep  gulfs  below ; were  all  stupendous. 
This  house  is  wedged  round  by  great  heights 
that  are  lost  in  the  clouds ; and  the  loch,  twelve 
miles  long,  stretches  out  its  dreary  length  before 
the  windows.  In  my  next  I shall  soar  to  the 
sublime,  perhaps ; in  this  here  present  writing  I 
confine  myself  to  the  ridiculous.  But  I am 
always,”  &c.  &c. 

His  next  letter  bore  the  date  of  “ Ballechelish, 
Friday  evening,  ninth  July,  1841,  half-past  nine, 
p.M.”  and  described  what  we  had  often  longed 

to  see  together,  the  Pass  of  Glencoe “I 

can’t  go  to  bed  without  writing  to  you  from 
here,  though  the  post  will  not  leave  this  place 
until  we  have  left  it,  and  anaved  at  another. 
On  looking  over  the  route  which  Lord  Murray 
made  out  for  me,  I found  he  had  put  down 
Thursday  next  for  Abbotsford  and  Dryburgh- 
abbey,  and  a journey  of  seventy  miles  besides  ! 
Therefore,  and  as  I was  happily  able  to  steal  a 
march  upon  myself  at  Loch-earn-head,  and  to 
finish  in  two  days  what  I thought  would  take 
me  three,  we  shall  leave  here  to-morrow  morn- 
ing; and,  by  being  a day  earlier  than  we  intended 
at  all  the  places  between  this  and  Melrose  (which 
we  propose  to  reach  by  Wednesday  night),  we 
shall  have  a whole  day  for  Scott’s  house  and 
tomb,  and  still  be  at  York  on  Saturday  evening, 

and  home,  God  willing,  on  Sunday We 

left  Loch-earn-head  last  night,  and  went  to  a 
place  called  Killin,  eight  miles  from  it,  where  we 
slept.  I walked  some  six  miles  with  Fletcher 
after  we  got  there,  to  see  a waterfall;  and  truly 
it  was  a magnificent  sight,  foaming  and  crashing 


75 


down  three  great  steeps  of  riven  rock ; leaping 
over  the  first  as  far  off  as  you  could  carry  your 
eye,  and  rumbling  and  foaming  down  into  a 
dizzy  pool  below  you,  with  a deafening  roar. 
To-day  we  have  had  a journey  of  between  50 
and  60  miles,  through  the  bleakest  and  most 
desolate  part  of  Scotland,  where  the  hill-tops  are 
still  covered  with  great  patches  of  snow,  and  the 
road  winds  over  steep  mountain  passes  and  on 
the  brink  of  deep  brooks  and  precipices.  The 
cold  all  day  has  been  inte?ise,  and  the  rain  some- 
times most  violent.  It  has  been  impossible  to 
keep  warm,  by  any  means  ; even  whiskey  failed ; 
the  wind  was  too  piercing  even  for  that.  One 
stage  of  ten  miles,  over  a place  called  the  Black- 
mount,  took  us  two  hours  and  a half  to  do  ; and 
when  we  came  to  a lone  public  called  the  King’s- 
house,  at  the  entrance  to  Glencoe — this  was 
about  three  o’clock — we  were  well  nigh  frozen. 
We  got  a fire  directly,  and  in  twenty  minutes  they 
served  us  up  some  famous  kippered  salmon, 
broiled;  a broiled  fowl;  hot  mutton  ham  and 
poached  eggs ; pancakes  ; oatcakes ; wheaten 
bread  ; butter ; bottled  porter ; hot  water,  lump 
sugar,  and  whiskey ; of  which  we  made  a very 
hearty  meal.  All  the  way,  the  road  had  been 
among  moors  and  mountains  with  huge  masses 
of  rock,  which  fell  down  God  knows  where, 
sprinkling  the  ground  in  every  direction,  and 
giving  it  the  aspect  of  the  burial  place  of  a race 
of  giants.  Now  and  then  we  passed  a hut  or 
two,  with  neither  window  nor  chimney,  and  the 
smoke  of  the  peat  fire  rolling  out  at  the  door. 
But  there  were  not  six  of  these  dwellings  in  a 
dozen  miles ; and  anything  so  bleak  and  wild, 
and  mighty  in  its  loneliness,  as  the  whole  country, 
it  is  impossible  to  conceive.  Glencoe  itself  is 
perfectly  terrible.  The  pass  is  an  awful  place. 
It  is  shut  in  on  each  side  by  enormous  rocks 
from  which  great  torrents  come  rushing  down  in 
all  directions.  In  amongst  these  rocks  on  one 
side  of  the  pass  (the  left  as  we  came)  there  are 
scores  of  glens,  high  up,  which  form  such  haunts 
as  you  might  imagine  yourself  wandering  in,  in 
the  very  height  and  madness  of  a fever.  They 
will  live  in  my  dreams  for  years — I was  going  to 
say  as  long  as  I live,  and  I seriously  think  so. 
The  very  recollection  of  them  makes  me  shudder. 

. . . . Well,  I will  not  bore  you  with  my  im- 
pressions of  these  tremendous  wilds,  but  they 
really  are  fearful  in  their  grandeur  and  amazing 
solitude.  Wales  is  a mere  toy  compared  with 
them.” 

The  farther  mention  of  his  guide’s  whimsical 
ways  may  stand,  since  it  cannot  now  be  the 
possible  occasion  of  pain  or  annoyance,  or  of 
anything  but  very  innocent  laughter. 


76  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“ We  are  here  iir  a bare  white  house  on  the 
banks  of  Loch-leven,  but  in  a comfortably  fur- 
nished room  on  the  top  of  the  house — that  is, 
on  the  first  floor — with  the  rain  pattering  against 
the  window  as  though  it  were  December,  the 
wind  howling  dismally,  a cold  damp  mist  on 
everything  without,  a blazing  fire  within  halfway 
up  the  chimney,  and  a most  infernal  Piper  prac- 
tising under  the  window  for  a competition  of 

pipers  which  is  to  come  off  shortly The 

store  of  anecdotes  of  Fletcher  with  which  we 
shall  return,  will  last  a long  time.  It  seems  that 
the  F’s  are  an  extensive  clan,  and  that  his  father 
was  an  highlander.  Accordingly,  wherever  he 
goes,  he  finds  out  some  cotter  or  small  farmer 
who  is  his  cousin.  I wish  you  could  see  him 
walking  into  his  cousin’s  curds  and  cream  and 
into  their  dairies  generally  ! Yesterday  morning 
between  eight  and  nine,  I was  sitting  writing  at 
the  open  window,  when  the  postman  came  to 
the  inn  (which  at  Loch-earn-head  is  the  post 
office)  for  the  letters.  He  is  going  away,  when 
Fletcher,  who  has  been  writing  somewhere  below 
stairs,  rushes  out  and  cries  ‘ Holloa  there  ! Is 
that  the  Post?’  ‘Yes!’  somebody  answers. 

‘ Call  him  back  ! ’ says  Fletcher.  ‘ Just  sit  down 
till  I’ve  done,  and  don't  go  aivay  till  T tell  yon.' — 
Fancy  ! The  General  Post,  with  the  letters  of 
forty  villages  in  a leathern  bag!  . . . . To- 
morrow at  Oban.  Sunday  at  Inverary.  Monday 
at  Tarbet.  Tuesday  at  Glasgow  (and  that  night 
at  Hamilton).  Wednesday  at  Melrose.  Thurs- 
day at  Ditto.  Friday  I don’t  know  where. 
Saturday  at  York.  Sunday — how  glad  I shall 
be  to  shake  hands  with  you.  My  love  to  Mac. 
I thought  he’d  have  written  once.  Ditto  to 
Macready.  I had  a very  nice  and  welcome 
letter  from  him,  and  a most  hearty  one  from 

Elliotson P.S.  Half  asleep.  So,  excuse 

drowsiness  of  matter  and  composition.  I shall 
be  full  of  joy  to  meet  another  letter  from  you  ! 

. . . . P.P.S.  They  speak  Gaelic  here,  of  course, 
and  many  of  the  common  people  understand 
very  little  English.  Since  I wrote  this  letter,  I 
rang  the  girl  up-stairs,  and  gave  elaborate  direc- 
tions (you  know  my  way)  for  a pint  of  sherry  to 
be  made  into  boiling  negus  \ mentioning  all  the 
ingredients  one  by  one,  and  particularly  nutmeg. 
When  I had  quite  finished,  seeing  her  obviously 
bewildered,  I said,  with  great  gravity,  ‘ Now  you 
know  what  you’re  going  to  order  ? ’ ‘ Oh  yes. 

Sure.’  ‘What?’ — a pause — ‘Just’ — another 
pause — ‘Just  plenty  of  nutbcrgs  ! ' " 

The  impression  made  upon  him  by  the  Pass 
of  Glencoe  was  not  overstated  in  this  letter.  It 
continued  with  him ; and,  even  where  he  ex- 
pected to  find  Nature  in  her  most  desolate 


grandeur,  on  the  dreary  waste  of  an  American 
prairie,  his  imagination  went  back  with  a higher 
satisfaction  to  Glencoe.  But  his  experience  of 
it  is  not  yet  completely  told.  The  sequel  was  in 
a letter  of  two  days  later  date  from  “ Dalmally, 
Sunday,  July  the  eleventh,  1841.” 

“As  there  was  no  place  of  this  name  in  our 
route,  you  will  be  surprised  to  see  it  at  the  head 
of  this  present  writing.  But  our  being  here  is  a 
part  of  such  moving  accidents  by  flood  and  field 
as  will  astonish  you.  If  you  should  happen  to 
have  your  hat  on,  take  it  off,  that  your  hair  may 
stand  on  end  without  any  interruption.  To  get 
from  Ballyhoolish  (as  I am  obliged  to  spell  it  | 
when  Fletcher  is  not  in  the  way;  and  he  is  out 
at  this  moment)  to  Oban,  it  is  necessary  to  cross 
two  ferries,  one  of  which  is  an  arm  of  the  sea, 
eight  or  ten  miles  broad.  Into  this  ferry-boat, 
passengers,  carriages,  horses,  and  all,  get  bodily, 
and  are  got  across  by  hook  or  by  crook  if  the 
weather  be  reasonably  fine.  Yesterday  morning, 
however,  it  blew  such  a strong  gale  that  the  land- 
lord of  the  inn,  where  we  had  paid  for  horses  all 
the  way  to  Oban  (thirty  miles),  honestly  came 
up-stairs  just  as  we  were  starting,  with  the  money 
in  his  hand,  and  told  us  it  would  be  impossible 
to  cross.  There  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to 
come  back  five  and  thirty  miles,  through  Glencoe 
and  Inverouran,  to  a place  called  Tyndrum, 
whence  a road  twelve  miles  long  crosses  to 
Dalmally,  which  is  sixteen  miles  from  Inverary. 
Accordingly  we  turned  back,  and  in  a great 
storm  of  wind  and  rain  began  to  retrace  the 

dreary  road  we  had  come  the  day  before 

I was  not  at  all  ill  pleased  to  have  to  come  again 
through  that  awful  Glencoe.  If  it  had  been 
tremendous  on  the  previous  day,  yesterday  it 
was  perfectly  horrific.  It  had  rained  all  night, 
and  was  raining  then,  as  it  only  does  in  these 
parts.  Through  the  whole  glen,  which  is  ten 
miles  long,  torrents  were  boiling  and  foaming, 
and  sending  up  in  every  direction  spray  like  the 
smoke  of  great  fires.  They  were  rushing  down 
every  hill  and  mountain  side,  and  tearing  like 
devils  across  the  path,  ami  down  into  the  depths 
of  the  rocks.  Some  of  the  hills  looked  as  if  they 
were  full  of  silver,  and  had  cracked  in  a hun- 
dred places.  Others  as  if  they  were  frightened, 
and  had  broken  out  into  a deadly  sweat.  In 
others  there  was  no  conqrromise  or  division  of 
streams,  but  one  great  torrent  came  roaring  rlown 
with  a deafening  noise,  and  a rushing  of  water  1 
that  was  quite  appalling.  Such  a spaet,  in  short 
(that’s  the  country  word),  has  not  been  known 
for  many  years,  and  the  sights  and  sounds  were 
beyond  description.  The  postboy  was  not  at 
all  at  his  ease,  and  the  horses  were  very  much 


IN  THE  HIGHLANDS 


frightened  (as  well  they  might  be)  by  the  per- 
petual raging  and  roaring ; one  of  them  started 
as  we  came  down  a steep  place,  and  we  were 
within  that  much  ( ) of  tumbling  over  a pre- 

cipice; just  then,  too,  the  drag  broke,  and  we 
were  obliged  to  go  on  as  we  best  could,  without 
it:  getting  out  every  now  and  then,  and  hanging 
on  at  the  back  of  the  carriage  to  prevent  its 
rolling  down  too  fast,  and  going  Heaven  knows 
where.  Well,  in  this  pleasant  state  of  things  we 
came  to  King’s-house  again,  having  been  four 
hours  doing  the  sixteen  miles.  The  rumble  where 
Tom  sat  was  by  this  time  so  full  of  water,  that 
he  was  obliged  to  borrow  a gimlet,  and  bore 
holes  in  the  bottom  to  let  it  run  out.  The  horses 
that  were  to  take  us  on,  were  out  upon  the  hills, 
somewhere  within  ten  miles  round  ; and  three 
or  four  bare-legged  fellows  went  out  to  look  for 
’em,  while  we  sat  by  the  fire  and  tried  to  dry 
ourselves.  At  last  we  got  off  again  (without  the 
drag  and  with  a broken  spring,  no  smith  living 
within  ten  miles),  and  went  limping  on  to  In- 
verouran.  In  the  first  three  miles  we  were  in  a 
ditch  and  out  again,  and  lost  a horse’s  shoe.  All 
this  time  it  never  once  left  off  raining ; and  was 
very  windy,  very  cold,  very  misty,  and  most  in- 
tensely dismal.  So  we  crossed  the  Black-mount, 
and  came  to  a place  we  had  passed  the  day  be- 
fore, where  a rapid  river  runs  over  a bed  of 
broken  rock.  Now  this  river,  sir,  had  a bridge 
last  winter,  but  the  bridge  broke  down  when  the 
thaw  came,  and  has  never  since  been  mended ; 
so  travellers  cross  upon  a little  platform,  made 
of  rough  deal  planks  stretching  from  rock  to 
rock  ; and  carriages  and  horses  ford  the  water  at 
a certain  point.  As  the  platform  is  the  reverse 
of  steady  (we  had  proved  this  the  day  before), 
is  very  slippery,  and  affords  anything  but  a plea- 
sant footing,  having  only  a trembling  little  rail 
on  one  side,  and  on  the  other  nothing  between 
it  and  the  foaming  stream,  Kate  decided  to  re- 
main in  the  carriage,  and  trust  herself  to  the 
wheels  rather  than  to  her  feet.  Fletcher  and  I 
got  out,  and  it  was  going  away,  when  I advised 
her,  as  I had  done  several  times  before,  to  come 
with  us ; for  I saw  that  the  water  was  very  high, 
the  current  being  greatly  swollen  by  the  rain, 
and  that  the  post-boy  had  been  eyeing  it  in  a 
very  disconcerted  manner  for  the  last  half  hour. 
This  decided  her  to  come  out;  and  Fletcher, 
she,  Tom,  and  I,  began  to  cross,  while  the  car- 
riage went  about  a quarter  of  a mile  down  the 
bank,  in  search  of  a shallow  place.  The  plat- 
form shook  so  much  that  we  could  only  come 
across  two  at  a time,  and  then  it  felt  as  if  it 
were  hung  on  springs.  As  to  the  wind  and 
rain  ! . . . . well,  put  into  one  gust  all  the  wind 


and  rain  you  ever  saw  and  heard,  and  you’ll  { 
have  some  faint  notion  of  it ! When  we  got 
safely  to  the  opposite  bank,  there  came  riding 
up  a wild  highlander  in  a great  plaid,  whom  we 
recognized  as  the  landlord  of  the  inn,  and  who, 
without  taking  the  least  notice  of  us,  went  dashing 
on,  with  the  plaid  he  was  wrapped  in  streaming 
in  the  wind,  screeching  in  Gaelic  to  the  post-boy 
on  the  opposite  bank,  and  making  the  most 
frantic  gestures  you  ever  saw,  in  which  he  was- 
joined  by  some  other  wild  men  on  foot,  who  had 
come  across  by  a short  cut,  knee  deep  in  mire 
and  water.  As  we  began  to  see  what  this  meant, 
we  (that  is,  Fletcher  and  I)  scrambled  on  after 
them,  while  the  boy,  horses,  and  carriage  were 
plunging  in  the  water,  which  left  only  the  horses’’ 
heads  and  the  boy’s  body  visible.  By  the  time 
we  got  up  to  them,  the  man  on  horseback  and 
the  men  on  foot  were  perfectly  mad  with  panto- 
mime ; for  as  to  any  of  their  shouts  being  heard 
by  the  boy,  the  water  made  such  a great  noise 
that  they  might  as  well  have  been  dumb.  It 
made  me  quite  sick  to  think  how  I should  have- 
felt  if  Kate  had  been  inside.  The  carriage  went 
round  and  round  like  a great  stone,  the  boy  was 
as  pale  as  death,  the  horses  were  struggling  and 
plashing  and  snorting  like  sea-animals,  and  we 
were  all  roaring  to  the  driver  to  throw  himself 
off,  and  let  them  and  the  coach  go  to  the  devil,, 
when  suddenly  it  came  all  right  (having  got  into- 
shallow  water),  and,  all  tumbling  and  dripping 
and  jogging  from  side  to  side,  climbed  up  to  the 
dry  land.  I assure  you  we  looked  rather  queer,, 
as  we  wiped  our  faces  and  stared  at  each  other 
in  a little  cluster  round  about  it.  It  seemed 
that  the  man  on  horseback  had  been  looking  at 
us  through  a telescope  as  we  came  to  the  track, 
and  knowing  that  the  place  was  very  dangerous, 
and  seeing  that  we  meant  to  bring  the  carriage, 
had  come  on  at  a great  gallop  to  show  the  driver 
the  only  place  where  he  could  cross.  By  the 
time  he  came  up,  the  man  had  taken  the  water 
at  a wrong  place,  and  in  a word  was  as  nearly 
drowned  (with  carriage,  horses,  luggage,  and  all) 
as  ever  man  was.  Was  this  a good  adventure? 

“ We  all  went  on  to  the  inn — the  wild  man 
galloping  on  first,  to  get  a fire  lighted — and 
there  we  dined  on  eggs  and  bacon,  oatcake, 
and  whiskey;  and  changed  and  dried  ourselves. 
The  place  was  a mere  knot  of  little  outhouses, 
and  in  one  of  these  there  were  fifty  highlanders 

all  drunk Some  were  drovers,  some 

pipers,  and  some  workmen  engaged  to  build  a 
hunting-lodge  for  Lord  Breadalbane  hard  b}q 
who  had  been  driven  in  by  stress  of  weather. 
One  was  a paper-hanger.  He  had  come  out 
three  days  before  to  paper  the  inn’s  best  room. 


78 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


a chamber  almost  large  enough  to  keep  a New- 
foundland dog  in;  and,  from  the  first  half  hour 
after  his  arrival  to  that  moment,  had  been  hope- 
lessly and  irreclaimably  drunk.  They  were  lying 
about  in  all  directions ; on  forms,  on  the  ground, 
about  a loft  overhead,  round  the  turf-fire  wrapped 
in  plaids,  on  the  tables,  and  under  them.  We 
paid  our  bill,  thanked  our  host  very  heartily, 
gave  some  money  to  his  children,  and  after  an 
hour’s  rest  came  on  again.  At  ten  o’clock  at 
night,  we  reached  this  place,  and  were  overjoyed 
to  find  quite  an  English  inn,  with  good  beds 
(those  we  have  slept  on,  yet,  have  always  been 
of  straw),  and  every  possible  comfort.  We  break- 
fasted this  morning  at  half-past  ten,  and  at  three 
go  on  to  Inverary  to  dinner.  I believe  the  very 
rough  part  of  the  journey  is  over,  and  I am 
really  glad  of  it.  Kate  sends  all  kinds  of  re- 
gards. I shall  hope  to  find  a letter  from  you  at 
Inverary  when  the  post  reaches  there,  to-morrow. 
I wrote  to  Oban  yesterday,  desiring  the  post- 
office  keeper  to  send  any  he  might  have  for  us, 
over  to  that  place.  Love  to  Mac.” 


One  more  letter,  brief,  but  overflowing  at 
every  word  with  his  generous  nature,  must  close 
the  delightful  series  written  from  Scotland.  It 
was  dated  from  Inverary  the  day  following  his 
e.xciting  adventure ; promised  me  another  from 
Melrose  (which  has  unfortunately  not  been  kept 
with  the  rest) ; and  enclosed  the  invitation  to  a 
public  dinner  at  Glasgow.  “ I have  returned 
for  answer  that  I am  on  my  way  home,  on 
pressing  business  connected  with  my  weekly 
publication,  and  can’t  stop.  But  I have  offered 
to  come  down  any  day  in  September  or  Octo- 
ber, and  accept  the  honour  then.  Now,  I 
shall  come  and  return  per  mail ; and  if  this 
suits  them,  enter  into  a solemn  league  and 
covenant  to  come  with  me.  Do.  You  must. 

I am  sure  you  will Till  my  next,  and 

always  afterwards,  God  bless  you.  I got  your 
welcome  letter  this  morning,  and  have  read  it  a 
hundred  times.  What  a pleasure  it  is.  Kate’s 
best  regards.  I am  dying  for  Sunday,  and 
wouldn’t  stop  now  for  twenty  dinners  of  twenty 
thousand  each. 


“ Will  Lord  John  meet  the  parliament,  or 
resign  first  ? ” 1 agreed  to  accompany  him  to 

Glasgow;  but  illness  intercepted  that  celebra- 
tion. 


XII. 


AGAIN  AT  BROADSTAIRS. 

1841. 

OON  after  his  return,  at  the  opening 
of  August,  he  went  to  Broadstairs  ; 
and  the  direction  in  which  that  last 
question  shows  his  thoughts  to  have 
been  busy,  was  that  to  which  he 
■rJ  turned  his  first  holiday  leisure.  Ele 
sent  me  some  rhymed  squibs  as  his  anony- 
mous  contribution  to  the  fight  the  liberals 
were  then  making,  against  what  was  believed  to 
be  intended  by  the  return  to  office  of  the  tories  ; 
ignorant  as  we  w'ere  how  much  wiser  than  his 
party  the  statesman  then  at  the  head  of  it  w^as. 


or  how  greatly  what  w^e  all  most  desired  w’ould 
be  advanced  by  the  very  success  that  had  been 
most  disheartening.  There  wilt  be  no  harm 
now  in  giving  extracts  from  one  or  two  of  these 
pieces,  which  wdll  sufficiently  show'  the  tone  of 
all  of  them,  and  with  what  relish  they  w'ere 
w'ritten.  A celebrated  address  had  been  de- 
livered at  Tamworth,  in  which  the  orator,  though 
in  those  days  big  with  nothing  much  larger  or 
graver  than  a sliding-scale,  had  made  a mystery 
of  it  as  an  infallible  specific  for  public  affairs, 
which  he  refused  to  prescribe  till  regularly  called 
in ; and  this  was  good-humouredly  laughed  at 
in  a quack-doctor’s  ])roclamation,  to  the  tune  of 
“ A Gobbler  there  was.” 

lie’s  a famous  corn-doctor,  of  wonderful  skill — 

No  cutting,  no  rooting  up,  inirging,  or  pill — 

You’re  merely  to  take,  ’stead  of  w'alking  or  riding, 

The  light  schoolboy  exercise,  innocent  sliding. 

Tol  de  rol,  &c. 

There’s  no  advice  gratis.  If  high  ladies  send 
Ilis  legitimate  fee,  he’s  their  soft-s]rokcn  friend. 

At  the  great  public  counter  with  one  hand  behind  him 
And  one  in  his  waistcoat,  they’re  certain  to  find  him. 

Tol  do  rol,  &c. 


A GAIN  A T BR  O AD  STAIRS.  7 9 


lie  has  only  to  acid  he’s  the  true  Doctor  Flam, 

All  others  being  purely  fictitious  and  sham  ; 

The  house  is  a large  one,  tall,  slated,  and  white. 

With  a lobby,  and  lights  in  the  passage  at  night. 

Tol  de  rol,  diddle  doll,  &c. 

I doubt  if  he  ever  enjoyed  unylhing  more  than 
the  power  of  thus  taking  part  occasionally,  un- 
known to  outsiders,  in  the  sharp  conflict  the 
press  was  waging  at  the  time.  “ By  Jove,  how 
radical  I am  getting!”  he  wrote  to  me  (13th 
August).  “ I wax  stronger  and  stronger  in  the 
true  principles  every  day.  I don’t  know  whether 
it’s  the  sea,  or  no,  but  so  it  is.”  He  would  at 
times  even  talk,  in  moments  of  sudden  indig- 
nation at  the  political  outlook,  of  carrying  off 
himself  and  his  household  gods,  like  Coriolanus, 
to  a world  elsewhere  ! “ Thank  God  there  is  a 

Van  Diemen’s-land.  That’s  my  comfort.  Now, 
I wonder  if  I should  make  a good  settler  ! I 
wonder,  if  I went  to  a new  colony  with  my  head, 
hands,  legs,  and  health,  I should  force  myself  to 
the  top  of  the  social  milk-pot,  and  live  upon  the 
cream  ! What  do  you  think  ? Upon  my  word 
I believe  I should.” 

Among  his  political  squibs  during  the  tory 
interregnum  were  some  subjects  for  pictures  after 
the  manner  of  Peter  Pindar,  of  which  one  or 
two  stanzas  will  show  the  tone  and  spirit. 

To  you,  Maclise,  who  Eve’s  fair  daughters  paint 
With  Nature’s  hand,  and  want  the  maudlin  taint 
Of  the  sweet  Chalon  school  of  silk  and  ermine  : 

To  you,  O Landseer,  who  from  year  to  year 
Delight  in  beasts  and  birds,  and  dogs  and  deer, 
And  seldom  give  us  any  human  vermin — 

To  all  who  practise  art,  or  make  believe, 

I offer  subjects  they  may  take  or  leave. 

# * *- ' * •*  * 

Paint,  squandering  the  Club’s  election  gold. 

Fierce  lovers  of  the  Constitution  old, 

Our  Lords,  that  sacred  lady’s  greatest  debtors  ; 

And  let  the  Law  forbidding  any  voice 
Or  act  of  Peer  to  influence  the  choice 
Of  English  people,  flourish  in  bright  letters. 

Paint  that  same  dear  old  lady  ill  at  ease. 

Weak  in  her  second  childhood,  hard  to  please. 
Unknowing  what  she  ails  or  what  she  wishes ; 

With  all  her  Carlton  nephews  at  the  door, 
Deaf’ning  both  aunt  and  nurses  with  their  roar — 
Fighting,  already,  for  the  loaves  and  fishes  ! 

The  last  of  these  rhymes  I will  give  entire. 
This  had  no  touch  of  personal  satire  in  it,  and 
he  would  himself,  for  that  reason,  have  least 
objected  to  its  revival.  Thus  ran  his  new  ver- 
sion of  “ The  Fine  Old  English  Gentleman,  to 
be  said  or  sung  at  all  conservative  dinners.” 

I’ll  sing  you  a new  ballad,  and  I’ll  warrant  it  first-rate. 

Of  the  days  of  that  old  gentleman  who  had  that  old 
estate  ; 


When  they  spent  the  public  money  at  a bountiful  old 
rate 

On  ev'ry  mistress,  pimp,  and  scamp,  at  ev’ry  noble  gate, 

In  the  fine  old  English  Tory  times ; 

Soon  may  they  come  again  ! 

The  good  old  laws  were  garnished  well  with  gibbets, 
whips,  and  chains. 

With  fine  old  English  penalties,  and  fine  old  English 
pains. 

With  rebel  heads  and  seas  of  blood  once  hot  in  rebel 
veins  : 

For  all  these  things  were  requisite  to  guard  the  rich  old 
gains 

Of  the  fine  old  English  Tory  times ; 

Soon  may  they  come  again  ! 

This  brave  old  code,  like  Argus,  had  a hundred  watchful 
eyes. 

And  ev’ry  English  peasant  had  his  good  old  English 
spies. 

To  tempt  his  starving  discontent  with  fine  old  English 
lies. 

Then  call  the  good  old  Yeomanry  to  stop  his  peevish 
cries, 

In  the  fine  old  English  Tory  times  ; 

Soon  may  they  come  again  ! 

The  good  old  times  for  cutting  throats  that  cried  out  in 
their  need. 

The  good  old  times  for  hunting  men  who  held  their 
fathers’  creed. 

The  good  old  times  when  William  Pitt,  as  all  good 
men  agreed. 

Came  down  direct  from  Paradise  at  more  than  railroad 
speed 

Oh  the  fine  old  English  Tory  times ; 

When  will  they  come  again  ! 

In  those  rare  days,  the  press  was  seldom  known  to  snarl 
or  bark. 

But  sweetly  sang  of  men  in  pow’r,  like  any  tuneful  lark  ; 

Grave  judges,  too,  to  all  their  evil  deeds  were  in  the 
dark ; 

And  not  a man  in  twenty  score  knew  how  to  make  his 
mark. 

Oh  the  fine  old  English  Tory  times ; 

Soon  may  they  come  again  I . . . . 

But  Tolerance,  though  slow  in  flight,  is  strong-wing’d  in 
the  main ; 

That  night  must  come  on  these  fine  days,  in  course  of 
time  was  plain ; 

The  pure  old  spirit  struggled,  but  its  struggles  were  in  vain ; 

A nation’s  grip  was  on  it,  and  it  died  in  choking  pain, 

With  the  fine  old  English  Tory  days. 

All  of  the  olden  time. 

The  bright  old  day  now  dawns  again ; the  cry  nms  through 
the  land, 

In  England  there  shall  be — dear  bread  I in  Ireland — sword 
and  brand  ! 

And  poverty,  and  ignorance,  shall  swell  the  rich  and 
grand, 

So,  rally  round  the  rulers  with  the  gentle  iron  hand. 

Of  the  fine  old  English  Tory  days  ; 

Hail  to  the  coming  time ! 

Of  matters  in  which  he  had  been  specially  in- 
terested before  he  quitted  London,  one  or  two 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


may  properly  be  named.  He  had  always  sym- 
pathised, almost  as  strongly  as  Archbishop 
Whately  did,  with  Doctor  Elliotson’s  mesmeric 
investigations  ; and,  reinforced  as  these  were  in 
the  present  year  by  the  displays  of  a Belgian 
youth  whom  another  friend,  Mr.  Chauncy  Hare 
Townshend,  brought  over  to  England,  the  sub- 
ject, which  to  the  last  had  an  attraction  for  him, 
was  for  the  time  rather  ardently  followed  up. 
The  improvement  during  the  last  few  years  in 
the  London  prisons  was  another  matter  of  eager 
and  pleased  enquiry  with  him  ; and  he  took  fre- 
quent means  of  stating  what  in  this  respect  had 
been  done,  since  even  the  date  when  his  Sketches 
w'ere  written,  by  two  most  efficient  public  officers 
at  Clerkenwell  and  Tothill-fields,  Mr.  Chesterton 
and  Lieutenant  Tracey,  whom  the  course  of 
these  enquiries  turned  into  private  friends.  His 
last  letter  to  me  before  he  quitted  towm  suffi- 
ciently explains  itself.  “ Slow  rises  worth  by 
poverty  deprest  ” was  the  thought  in  his  mind 
at  every  part  of  his  career,  and  he  never  for  a 
moment  was  unmindful  of  the  duty  it  imposed 
upon  him.  “ I subscribed  for  a couple  of  copies  ” 
(31st  July)  “of  this  little  book.  I knew  nothing 
of  the  man,  but  he  wrote  me  a very  modest 
letter  of  tw'o  lines,  some  weeks  ago.  I have 
been  much  affected  by  the  little  biography  at 
the  beginning,  and  I thought  you  would  like  to 
share  the  emotion  it  had  raised  in  me.  I wish 
we  were  all  in  Eden  again — for  the  sake  of  these 
toiling  creatures.” 

In  the  middle  of  August  (Monday  i6th)  I had 
announcement  that  he  was  coming  up  for  spe- 
cial purposes.  “ I sit  down  to  write  to  you 
without  an  atom  of  news  to  communicate.  Yes, 
I have — something  that  w’ill  surprise  you,  wdio 
are  pent  up  in  dark  and  dismal  Lincoln’s-inn- 
fields.  It  is  the  brightest  day  you  ever  saw. 
The  sun  is  sparkling  on  the  water  so  that  I can 
hardly  bear  to  look  at  it.  The  tide  is  in,  and 
the  fishing-boats  are  dancing  like  mad.  LTpon 
the  green-topped  cliffs  the  corn  is  cut  and  piled 
in  shocks ; and  thousands  of  butterflies  are  flut- 
tering about,  taking  the  bright  little  red  flags  at 
the  mast-heads  for  flowers,  and  panting  w'ith  de- 
light accordingly.  [Here  the  Inimitable,  unable 
to  resist  the  brilliancy  out  of  doors,  breaketh  off, 
rushetli  to  the  machines,  and  plungeth  into  the 
sea.  Returning,  he  proceedeth  :]  Jeffrey  is 
just  as  he  was  when  he  wuote  the  letter  I sent 
you.  No  better,  and  no  worse.  I had  a letter 
from  Napier  on  Saturday,  urging  the  children’s- 
labour  subject  upon  me.  But,  as  I hear  from 
Southw'ood  Smith  that  the  report  cannot  be 
printed  until  the  new  parliament  has  sat  at  the 
least  .six  weeks,  it  will  be  impossible  to  produce 


it  before  the  January  number.  I shall  be  in 
town  on  Saturday  morning,  and  go  straight  to 
you.  A letter  has  come  from  little  Hall,  begging 
that  when  I do  come  to  town  I will  dine  there, 
as  they  wish  to  talk  about  the  new  story.  I 
have  written  to  say  that  I will  do  so  on  Satur- 
da)',  and  we  will  go  together ; but  I shall  be  by 

no  means  good  company I have  more 

than  half  a mind  to  start  a bookseller  of  my  own. 
I could  ; with  good  capital  too,  as  you  know ; 
and  ready  to  spend  it.  G.  Var den  beware!” 
Small  causes  of  displeasure  had  been  growing 
out  of  the  Clock,  and  were  almost  unavoidably 
incident  to  the  position  in  which  he  found  him- 
self respecting  it.  Its  discontinuance  had  be- 
come necessary,  the  strain  upon  himself  being 
too  great  without  the  help  from  others  which 
experience  had  shown  to  be  impracticable  \ but 
I thought  he  had  not  met  the  difficulty  wisely 
by  undertaking,  which  already  he  had  done,  to 
begin  a new  story  so  early  as  the  following 
March.  On  his  arrival  therefore  we  decided  on 
another  plan,  with  which  we  went  armed  that 
Saturday  afternoon  to  his  publishers ; and  of 
which  the  result  will  be  best  told  by  himself. 
He  had  returned  to  Broadstairs  the  following 
morning,  and  next  day  (Monday  the  23rd  of 
August)  he  wrote  to  me  in  very  enthusiastic 
terms  of  the  share  I had  taken  in  wliat  he  calls 
“ the  development  on  Saturday  afternoon ; when 
I thought  Chapman  very  manly  and  sensible. 
Hall  morally  and  physically  feeble  though  per- 
fectly well  intentioned,  and  both  the  statement 
and  reception  of  the  project  quite  triumphant. 
Didn’t  you  think  so  too?”  A fortnight  later. 
Tuesday  the  7th  of  September,  the  agreement 
was  signed  in  my  chambers,  and  its  terms  were 
to  the  effect  following.  The  Clock  was  to  cease 
with  the  close  of  Barnaby  Rudge,  the  respective 
ownerships  continuing  as  provided ; and  the 
new  work  in  twenty  numbers,  similar  to  those 
of  Pickwick  and  Nickleby,  was  not  to  begin  until 
after  an  interval  of  twelve  months,  in  November 
1842.  During  its  publication  he  was  to  receive 
;^20o  monthly,  to  be  accounted  as  part  of  the 
expenses ; for  all  which,  and  all  risks  incident, 
the  publishers  made  themselves  responsible, 
under  conditions  tlie  same  as  in  the  Clock  agree- 
ment ; except  that,  out  of  the  profits  of  each 
number,  tliey  were  to  have  only  a fourth,  three 
fourths  going  to  him,  and  this  arrangement  was 
to  hold  gooil  until  the  termination  of  six  months 
from  the  completed  book,  when,  upon  pay- 
ment to  him  of  a fourth  of  the  value  ot  all  exist- 
ing stock,  they  were  to  liave  half  the  future  in- 
terest. During  tlie  twelve  months’  interval  be- 
fore the  book  began,  he  was  to  be  paid 


EVE  OF  THE  VISIT.  8i 


each  month ; but  this  was  to  be  drawn  from 
his  three  fourths  of  the  profits,  and  in  no  way  to 
interfere  with  the  monthly  payments  of  £,200 
wliile  the  publication  was  going  on.  Such  was 
the  “ project,”  excepting  only  a provision  to  be 
mentioned  hereafter  against  the  improbable 
event  of  the  profits  being  inadequate  to  the  re- 
payment : and  some  fear  as  to  the  use  he  was 
likely  to  make  of  the  leisure  it  afforded  him 
seemed  to  me  its  only  drawback. 

That  this  fear  was  not  illfounded  appeared  at 
the  close  of  his  next  letter.  “ There’s  no  news  ” 
(13th  September)  “since  my  last.  We  are  going 
to  dine  with  Rogers  to-day,  and  with  Lady 
Essex,  who  is  also  here.  Rogers  is  much 
pleased  with  Lord  Ashley,  who  was  offered  by 


Peel  a post  in  the  government,  but  resolutely 
refused  to  take  office  unless  Peel  pledged  him- 
self to  factory  improvement.  Peel  ‘ hadn’t  made 
up  his  mind  ; ’ and  Lord  Ashley  was  deaf  to  all 
other  inducements,  though  they  must  have  been 
very  tempting.  Much  do  I honour  him  for  ir. 
I am  in  an  exquisitely  lazy  state,  bathing,  walk- 
ing, reading,  lying  in  the  sun,  doing  everything 
but  working.  This  frame  of  mind  is  super- 
induced by  the  prospect  of  rest,  and  the  pro- 
mising arrangements  which  I owe  to  you.  I am 
still  haunted  by  visions  of  America,  night  and 
day.  To  miss  this  opportunity  would  be  a sad 
thing.  Rate  cries  dismally  if  I mention  the 
subject.  But,  God  willing,  I think  it  must  be 
I managed  somehow  ! ” 


BOOK  THIRD.— AMERICA. 


1841 — 1842.  ^T.  29 — 30. 


I.  Eve  of  the  Visit. 

II.  First  Impressions. 

III.  Second  Impressions. 

IV.  Philadelphia  and  the  South. 


V.  Canal-Boat  Journeys. 

VI.  Far  West  : to  Niagara  Falls. 

VII.  Niagara  and  Montreal. 

VIII.  American  Notes. 


I. 

EVE  OF  THE  VISIT. 


tune 


1841. 

HE  notion  of  America  wns  in  his 
mind,  as  we  have  seen,  when  he  first 
projected  the  Clock,  and  a very  hearty 
letter  from  Washington  Irving  about 
little  Nell  and  the  Curiosity  Shop, 
expressing  the  delight  with  his  waitings 
and  the  yearnings  for  himself  which  had 
indeed  been  pouring  in  upon  him  for  some 
from  every  part  of  the  States,  had  very 
strongly  revived  it.  He  answered  Irving  with 
more  than  his  own  warmth  : unable  to  thank  him 
enough  for  his  cordial  and  generous  praise,  or 
to  tell  him  what  lasting  gratification  it  had  given. 
“ I wish  I could  find  in  your  welcome  letter,”  he 
added,  “ some  hint  of  an  intention  to  visit  Eng- 
land. I should  love  to  go  with  you,  as  I have 
gone,  God  knows  how  often,  into  Little-britain, 
and  East-cheap,  and  Green-arbour-court,  and 

Westminster-abbey It  would  gladden  my 

heart  to  compare  notes  with  you  about  all  those 
delightful  places  and  people  that  I used  to  walk 
about  and  dream  of  in  the  day  time,  when  a 
, very  small  and  not-over-particularly-taken-care-of 


boy.”  After  interchange  of  these  letters  the 
subject  was  frequently  revived;  upon  his  return 
from  Scotland  it  began  to  take  shape  as  a thing 
that  somehow  or  other,  at  no  very  distant  date, 
fniist  be;  and  at  last,  near  the  end  of  a letter 
filled  with  many  unimportant  things,  the  an- 
nouncement, doubly  underlined,  came  to  me. 

The  decision  once  taken,  he  was  in  his  usual 
fever  until  its  difficulties  were  disposed  of.  The 
objections  to  separation  from  the  children  led  at 
first  to  the  notion  of  taking  them,  but  this  was 
as  quickly  abandoned  ; and  what  remained  to  be 
overcome  yielded  readily  to  the  kind  offices  of 
Macready,  the  offer  of  whose  home  to  the  little 
ones  during  the  time  of  absence,  though  not 
accepted  to  the  full  extent,  gave  yet  the  assur- 
ance needed  to  quiet  natural  apprehensions.  All 
this,  including  an  arrangement  for  publication  of 
such  notes  as  might  occur  to  him  on  the  journey, 
took  but  a few  days ; and  I was  reading  in  my 
chambers  a letter  he  had  written  the  previous  day 
from  Broadstairs,  when  a note  from  him  reached 
me,  written  that  morning  in  London,  to  tell  me 
he  was  on  his  way  to  take  share  of  my  breakfast. 
He  had  come  overland  by  Canterbury  after  post- 
ing his  first  letter;  had  seen  Macready  the  pre- 
vious night ; and  had  completed  some  part  of 
the  arrangements.  This  mode  of  rapid  procedure 


82  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


was  characteristic  of  him  at  all  similar  times,  and 
will  appear  in  the  few  following  extracts  from 
his  letters. 

“ Now”  (19th  September)  “ to  astonish  you. 
After  balancing,  considering,  and  weighing  the 
matter  in  every  point  of  view,  I have  made  up 
MY  MIND  (with  God’S  LEAVE)  TO  GO  TO  AMERICA 
—AND  TO  START  AS  SOON  AFTER  ChRIST.MAS  AS 
IT  WILL  EE  SAFE  TO  GO.”  Further  information 
was  promised  immediately  ; and  a request  fol- 
lowed, characteristic  as  any  he  could  have  added 
to  his  design  of  travelling  so  far  away,  that  we 
should  visit  once  more  together  the  scenes  of 
his  boyhood.  “ On  the  ninth  of  October  we 
leave  here.  It’s  a Saturday.  If  it  should  be 
fine  dry  weather,  or  anything  like  it,  will  you 
meet  us  at  Rochester,  and  stop  there  two  or 
three  days  to  see  all  the  lions  in  the  surrounding 

country?  Think  of  this If  you’ll  arrange 

to  come.  I’ll  have  the  carriage  down,  and  Top- 
ping ; and,  supposing  news  from  Glasgow  don’t 
interfere  with  us,  which  I fervently  hope  it  will 
not,  I will  ensure  that  vve  have  much  enjoy- 
ment.” 

Three  days  later  than  that  whi.ch  announced 
his  resolve,  the  subject  was  resumed.  “ I wrote 
to  Chapman  and  Hall,  asking  them  what  they 
thought  of  it,  and  saying  I meant  to  keep  a 
note-book,  and  publish  it  for  half  a guinea  or 
thereabouts,  on  my  return.  They  instantly  sent 
the  warmest  possible  reply,  and  said  they  had 
taken  it  for  granted  I would  go,  and  had  been 
speaking  of  it  only  the  day  before.  I have 
begged  them  to  make  every  enquiry  about  the 
fares,  cabins,  berths,  and  times  of  sailing ; and 
I shall  make  a great  effort  to  take  Kate  and  the 
children.  In  that  case  I shall  try  to  let  the 
house  furnished,  for  six  months  (for  I shall  re- 
main that  time  in  America) : and  if  I succeed, 
the  rent  will  nearly  pay  the  expenses  out,  and 
home.  I have  heard  of  family  cabins  at  ; 

and  I think  one  of  these  is  large  enough  to  hold 
us  all.  A single  fare,  I think,  is  forty  guineas. 
I fear  I could  not  be  happy  if  we  had  the 
Atlantic  between  us;  but  leaving  them  in  New 
York  while  I ran  off  a thousand  miles  or  so, 
would  be  quite  another  thing.  If  I can  arrange 
all  my  plans  before  publishing  the  Clock  address, 
I shall  state  therein  that  I am  going:  which  will 
be  no  unimportant  consideration,  as  affording 
the  best  possible  reason  for  a long  delay.  How 
I am  to  get  on  without  you  for  seven  or  eight 
months,  I cannot,  upon  my  soul,  conceive.  I 
dread  to  think  of  breaking  uji  all  our  old  happy 
habits,  for  so  long  a time.  The  advantages  of 
going,  however,  ajtpear  by  steady  looking-at  so 
great,  that  I have  come  to  ijcrsuadc  myself  it  is 


a matter  of  imperative  necessity.  Kate  weeps 
whenever  it  is  spoken  of.  Washington  Irving 
has  got  a nasty  low  fever.  I heard  from  him  a 
day  or  two  ago.” 

His  next  letter  was  the  unexpected  arrival 
which  came  by  hand  from  Devonshire-terrace, 
when  I thought  him  still  by  the  sea.  “ This  is 
to  give  you  notice  that  I am  coming  to  breakfast 
with  you  this  morning  on  my  way  to  Broadstairs. 
I repeat  it,  sir, — on  my  way  io  Broadstairs.  For, 
directly  I got  Macready’s  note  yesterday,  I went 
to  Canterbury,  and  came  on  by  day-coach  for 
the  express  purpose  of  talking  with  him  ; which 
I did  between  eleven  and  twelve  last  night  in 
Clarence  Terrace.  The  American  preliminaries 
are  necessarily  startling,  and,  to  a gentleman  of 
my  temperament,  destroy  rest,  sleep,  appetite, 
and  work,  unless  definitely  arranged.  Macready 
has  quite  decided  me  in  respect  of  time  and  so 
forth.  The  instant  I have  wrung  a reluctant 
consent  from  Kate,  I shall  take  our  joint  passage 
in  the  mail-packet  for  next  January.  I never 
loved  my  friends  so  well  as  now.”  We  had  all 
discountenanced  his  first  thought  of  taking  the 
children ; and,  upon  this  and  other  points,  the 
experience  of  our  friend,  who  had  himself  tra- 
velled over  the  States,  was  very  valuable.  His 
next  letter,  two  days  later  from  Broadstairs,  in- 
formed me  of  the  result  cf  the  Macready  con- 
ference. “ Only  a word.  Kate  is  quite  recon- 
ciled. Anne  ” (her  maid)  “ goes,  and  is  amazingly 
cheerful  and  light  of  heart  upon  it.  And  I think, 
at  present,  tliat  it’s  a greater  trial  to  me  than 
anybody.  The  4th  of  January  is  the  day.  Mac- 
ready’s  note  to  Kate  was  received  and  acted 
upon  with  a perfect  response.  She  talks  about 
it  quite  gaily,  and  is  satisfied  to  have  nobody  in 
the  house  but  Fred,  of  whom,  as  you  know,  they 
are  all  fond.  He  has  got  liis  promotion,  and 
they  give  him  the  increased  salary  from  the  day 
on  which  the  minute  was  made  by  Baring.  I 
feel  so  amiable,  so  meek,  so  fond  of  people,  so 
full  of  gratitudes  and  reliances,  that  I am  like  a 
sick  man.  And  I am  already  counting  the  days 
between  this  and  coming  home  again.” 

He  was  soon,  alas  ! to  be  what  he  compared 
himself  to.  I met  him  at  Rochester  at  the  eiul 
of  September,  as  arranged  ; we  jiasscd  a da)'  and 
night  there  ; a day  and  night  in  Gobham  and  its 
neighbourhood,  sleeinng  at  the  Leather-bottle ; 
and  a day  and  night  at  Gravesend.  But  we 
were  hardly  returned  when  some  slight  symp- 
toms of  bodily  trouble  took  siuUlenly  graver 
form,  and  an  illness  followed  involving  the 
necessity  of  surgical  attendance.  This,  which, 
with  mention  of  the  helpful  courage  displayed 
by  him,  has  before  been  alluded  to,  put  oil 


F/RS7'  IMPRESSIONS.  83 


necessarily  the  Glasgow  dinner ; and  he  had 
scarcely  left  his  bedroom  when  a trouble  arose 
near  home  which  touched  him  to  the  depths  of 
the  greatest  sorrow  of  his  life,  and,  in  the  need 
of  exerting  himself  for  others,  what  remained  of 
his  own  illness  seemed  to  pass  away. 

His  wife’s  younger  brother  had  died  with  the 
same  unexpected  suddenness  that  attended  her 
younger  sister’s  death ; and  the  event  had  fol- 
lowed close  upon  the  decease  of  Mrs.  Hogarth’s 
mother  while  on  a visit  to  her  daughter  and  Mr. 
Hogarth.  “ As  no  steps  had  been  taken  towards 
the  funeral,”  he  wrote  (25th  October)  in  reply  to 
my  offer  of  such  service  as  I could  render,  “ I 
thought  it  best  at  once  to  bestir  myself  j and 
not  even  you  could  have  saved  my  going  to  the 
cemetery.  It  is  a great  trial  to  me  to  give  up 
Mary’s  grave  ; greater  than  I can  possibly  ex- 
press. I thought  of  moving  her  to  the  cata- 
combs, and  saying  nothing  about  it ; but  then  I 
remembered  that  the  poor  old  lady  is  buried 
next  her  at  her  own  desire,  and  could  not  find 
it  in  my  heart,  directly  she  is  laid  in  the  earth, 
to  take  her  grandchild  away.  The  desire  to  be 
buried  next  her  is  as  strong  upon  me  now,  as  it 
was  five  years  ago ; and  I hioTe/  (for  I don’t 
think  there  ever  was  love  like  that  I bear  her) 
that  it  will  never  diminish.  I fear  I can  do 
nothing.  Do  you  think  I can  ? They  would 
move  her  on  Wednesday,  if  I resolved  to  have 
it  done.  I cannot  bear  the  thought  of  being 
excluded  from  her  dust ; and  yet  I feel  that  her 
brothers  and  sisters,  and  her  mother,  have  a 
better  right  than  I to  be  placed  beside  her.  It 
is  but  an  idea.  I neither  think  nor  hope  (God 
forbid)  that  our  spirits  would  ever  mingle  Eiere. 
I ought  to  get  the  better  of  it,  but  it  is  very 
hard.  I never  contemplated  this — and  coming 
so  suddenly,  and  after  being  ill,  it  disturbs  me 
more  than  it  ought.  It  seems  like  losing  her  a 

second  time ” “ No,”  he  wrote  the 

morning  after,  “ I tried  that.  No,  there  is  no 
ground  on  either  side  to  be  had.  I must  give 
it  up.  I shall  drive  over  there,  please  God,  on 
Thursday  morning,  before  they  get  there  : and 
look  at  her  coffin.” 

He  suffered  more  than  he  let  any  one  per- 
ceive, and  was  obliged  again  to  keep  his  room 
for  some  days.  On  the  second  of  November 
he  reported  himself  as  progressing  and  ordered 
to  Richmond,  which,  after  a week  or  so,  he 
changed  to  the  White-hart  at  Windsor,  where  I 
passed  some  days  with  him  and  Mrs.  Dickens, 
and  her  younger  sister  Georgina ; but  it  was  not 
till  near  the  close  of  that  month  he  could  de- 
scribe himself  as  thoroughly  on  his  legs  again, 
in  the  ordinary  state  on  which  he  was  wont  to 


pride  himself,  bolt  upright,  staunch  at  the  knees, 
a deep  sleeper,  a hearty  eater,  a good  laugher ; 
and  nowhere  a bit  the  worse,  “ ’bating  a little 
weakness  now  and  then,  and  a slight  nervous- 
ness at  times.” 

We  had  some  days  of  much  enjoyment  at  the 
end  of  the  year,  when  Landor  came  up  from 
Bath  for  the  christening  of  his  godson ; and  the 
Britaniiia,  which  was  to  take  the  travellers  from 
us  in  January,  brought  over  to  them  in  Decem- 
ber all  sorts  of  cordialities,  anticipations,  and 
stretchings-forth  of  hands,  in  token  of  the  wel- 
come awaiting  them.  On  new-year’s-eve  they 
dined  with  me,  and  I with  them  on  new-year’s- 
day  ; when  (his  house  having  been  taken  for  the 
period  of  his  absence  by  General  Sir  John 
Wilson)  we  sealed  up  his  wine-cellar,  after 
opening  therein  some  sparkling  Moselle  in 
honour  of  the  ceremony,  and  drinking  it  then 
and  there  to  his  happy  return.  Next  morning 
(it  was  a Sunday)  I accompanied  them  to  Liver- 
pool, Maclise  having  been  suddenly  stayed  by 
his  mother’s  death  ; the  intervening  day  and  its 
occupations  have  been  humorously  sketched  in 
his  American  book ; and  on  the  fourth  they 
sailed.  I never  saw  the  Britannia  after  I 
stepped  from  her  deck  back  to  the  small 
steamer  that  had  taken  us  to  her.  “ How  little 
I thought”  (were  the  last  lines  of  his  first 
American  letter),  “ the  first  time  you  mounted 
the  shapeless  coat,  that  I should  have  such  a 
sad  association  with  its  back  as  when  I saw  it 
by  the  paddle-box  of  that  small  steamer.” 


II. 

FIRST  IMPRESSIONS. 

1842. 

HE  first  lines  of  that  letter  were 
written  as  soon  as  he  got  sight  of 
earth  again,  from  the  banks  of  New- 
foundland, on  Monday  the  seven- 
teenth of  January,  the  fourteenth 
from  their  departure  ; even  then  so 
from  Halifax  that  they  could  not  ex- 
pect  to  make  it  before  Wednesday  night, 
or  to  reach  Boston  until  Saturday  or  Sunday. 
They  had  not  been  fortunate  in  the  passage. 
During  the  whole  voyage,  the  weather  had  been 
unprecedentedly  bad,  the  wind  for  the  most  part 
dead  against  them,  the  wet  intolerable,  the  sea 
horribly  disturbed,  the  days  dark,  and  the  nights 
fearful.  On  the  previous  Monday  night  it  had 
blown  a hurricane,  beginning  at  five  in  the 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DLCKENS. 


84 


afternoon  and  raging  all  night.  His  description 
of  the  storm  is  published,  and  the  peculiarities 
of  a steamer’s  behaviour  in  such  circumstances 
I are  hit  off  as  if  he  had  been  all  his  life  a sailor. 

I Any  but  so  extraordinary  an  observer  would 
, have  described  a steamer  in  a storm  as  he  would 
have  described  a sailing-ship  in  a storm.  But 
any  description  of  the  latter  would  be  as  inap- 
plicable to  my  friend’s  account  of  the  other  as 
I the  ways  of  a jackass  to  those  of  a mad  bull. 
In  the  letter  from  which  it  was  taken,  however, 
there  were  some  things  addressed  to  myself 
alone.  “ For  two  or  three  hours  we  gave  it  up 
as  a lost  thing ; and  with  many  thoughts  of  you, 
and  the  children,  and  those  others  who  are  dear- 
est to  us,  waited  quietly  for  the  worst.  I never- 
expected  to  see  the  day  again,  and  resigned 
.myself  to  God  as  well  as  I could.  It  was  a 
great  comfort  to  think  of  the  earnest  and  de- 
voted friends  we  had  left  behind,  and  to  know 
that  the  darlings  would  not  want.” 

This  was  not  an  exaggerated  apprehension  of 
a landsman  merely.  The  head  engineer,  who 
had  been  in  one  or  other  of  the  Cunard  vessels 
since  they  began  running,  had  never  seen  such 
stress  of  weather ; and  I heard  Captain  Hewitt 
himself  say  afterwards  that  nothing  but  a 
steamer,  and  one  of  that  strength,  could  have 
kept  her  course  and  stood  it  out.  A sailing 
vessel  must  have  beaten  off  and  driven  where 
she  could  ; while  through  all  the  fury  of  that 
gale  they  actually  made  fifty-four  miles  head- 
long through  the  tempest,  straight  on  end,  not 
j varying  their  track  in  the  least, 
i He  stood  out  against  sickness  only  for  the 
day  following  that  on  which  they  sailed.  For 
the  three  following  days  he  kept  his  bed ; 
miserable  enough ; ami  had  not,  until  the 
eighth  day  of  the  voyage,  six  days  before  the 
date  of  his  letter,  been  able  to  get  to  work  at 
the  dinner  table.  What  he  then  observed  of 
his  fellow-travellers,  and  had  to  tell  of  their  life 
on  board,  has  been  set  forth  in  his  IVofcs  with 

I delightful  humour ; but  in  its  first  freshness  I 
received  it  in  this  letter,  and  some  whimsical 
passages,  then  suppressed,  there  will  be  no  harm 
in  printing  now. 

“ We  have  86  passengers  ; and  such  a strange 
collection  of  beasts  never  was  got  together  upon 
the  sea,  since  the  days  of  the  Ark.  I have 
never  been  in  the  saloon  since  the  first  day ; 

I I the  noise,  the  smell,  and  the  closeness  being 
quite  intolerable.  I have  only  been  on  deck 
oftcc ! — and  then  I was  surprised  and  disap- 
pointed at  the  smallness  of  the  panorama.  The 
sea,  running  as  it  does  and  has  done,  is  very 
stu])endoLis,  and  viewed  from  the  air  or  some  | 


great  height  would  be  grand  no  doubt.  But 
seen  from  the  wet  and  rolling  decks,  in  this 
weather  and  these  circumstances,  it  only  im- 
presses one  giddily  and  painfully.  I was  very 
glad  to  turn  away,  and  come  below  again. 

“ I have  established  myself,  from  tire  first,  in 
the  ladies’  cabin — you  remember  it?  I’ll  de- 
scribe its  other  occupants,  and  our  way  of 
passing  the  time,  to  you. 

“ First,  for  the  occupants.  Kate  and  I,  and 
Anne — when  she  is  out  of  bed,  which  is  not 
often.  A queer  little  Scotch  body,  a Mrs.  P— ,* 
whose  husband  is  a silversmith  in  New  York. 
He  married  her  at  Glasgow  three  years  ago,  and 
bolted  the  day  after  the  wedding ; being  (which 
he  had  not  told  her)  heavily  in  debt.  Since 
then  she  has  been  living  with  her  mother  ; and 
she  is  now  going  out  under  the  protection  of  a 
male  cousin,  to  give  him  a year’s  trial.  If  she 
is  not  comfortable  at  the  expiration  of  that 
time,  she  means  to  go  back  to  Scotland  again. 
A Mrs.  B — , about  twenty  years  old,  whose 
husband  is  on  board  with  her.  He  is  a young 
Englishman  domiciled  in  New  York,  and  by 
trade  (as  well  as  I can  make  out)  a woollen- 
draper.  They  have  been  married  a fortnight. 
A Mr.  and  Mrs.  C — , marvellously  fond  of  each 
other,  complete  the  catalogue.  Mrs.  C — , I 
have  settled,  is  a publican’s  daughter,  and  Mr. 
C — is  running  away  with  her,  the  till,  the  time- 
piece off  the  bar  mantel-shelf,  the  mother’s  gold 
watch  from  the  pocket  at  the  head  of  the  bed  ; 
and  other  miscellaneous  property.  The  women 
are  all  pretty ; unusually  pretty.  I never  saw 
such  good  faces  together,  anywhere.” 

Their  “ way  of  passing  the  time  ” will  be 
found  in  the  Abto  much  as  it  was  written  to 
me ; except  that  there  was  one  point  connected 
with  the  card-playing  which  he  feared  might 
overtax  the  credulity  of  his  readers,  but  which 
he  protested  had  occurred  more  than  once. 
“ Apropos  of  rolling,  I have  forgotten  to  men- 
tion that  in  playing  whist  we  are  obliged  to  put 
the  tricks  in  our  pockets,  to  keej)  them  from 
disapirearing  altogether;  and  that  five  or  six 
times  in  the  course  of  every  rubber  we  are  all 
flung  from  our  seats,  roll  out  at  different  doors, 
and  keep  on  rolling  until  we  are  picked  uj)  by 
stewards.  This  lias  become  such  a matter  of 
course,  that  we  go  through  it  with  perfect 
gravity  : and,  when  we  are  bolstered  up  on  our 
sofas  again,  resume  our  conversation  or  our 

* The  initials  used  here  .arc  in  no  case  those  of  the 
real  names,  being  employed  in  every  case  for  the  express 
purpose  of  disguising  the  names,  (icncrally  the  remark 
is  applicable  to  all  initials  used  in  tlic  letters  printed  in 
the  course  of  this  work.  The  execi>tions  are  unimpor- 
tant. 


F//?S2'  /A/FJ^£SS/ONS. 


game  at  the  point  where  it  was  interrupted.” 
The  news  that  excited  them  from  day  to  day, 
too,  of  which  little  more  tlian  a hint  appears  in 
the  Notes,  is  worth  giving  as  originally  written. 

“ As  for  news,  we  have  more  of  that  than  you 
would  think  for.  One  man  lost  fourteen  pounds 
at  vingt-un  in  the  saloon  yesterday,  or  another 
got  drunk  before  dinner  was  over,  or  another 
was  blinded  with  lobster  sauce  spilt  over  him  by 
the  steward,  or  another  had  a fall  on  deck  and 
fainted.  The  ship’s  cook  was  drunk  yesterday 
morning  (having  got  at  some  salt-water-damaged 
whiskey),  and  the  captain  ordered  the  boatswain 
to  play  upon  him  with  the  hose  of  the  fire  en- 
gine until  he  roared  for  mercy — which  he  didn’t 
get ; for  he  was  sentenced  to  look  out,  for  four 
hours  at  a stretch  for  four  nights  running,  with- 
out a great  coat,  and  to  have  his  grog  stopped. 
Four  dozen  plates  were  broken  at  dinner.  One 
steward  fell  down  the  cabin-stairs  with  a round 
of  beef,  and  injured  his  foot  severely.  Another 
steward  fell  down  after  him,  and  cut  his  eye 
open.  The  baker’s  taken  ill : so  is  the  pastry- 
cook. A new  man,  sick  to  death,  has  been  re- 
quired to  fill  the  place  of  the  latter  officer,  and 
has  been  dragged  out  of  bed  and  propped  up  in 
a little  house  upon  deck,  between  two  casks,  and 
ordered  (the  captain  standing  over  him)  to  make 
and  roll  out  pie-crust ; which  he  protests,  with 
tears  in  his  eyes,  it  is  death  to  him  in  his  bilious 
state  to  look  at.  Twelve  dozen  of  bottled 
porter  has  got  loose  upon  deck,  and  the  bottles 
are  rolling  about  distractedly,  overhead.  Lord 
Mulgrave  (a  handsome  fellow,  by  the  bye,  to 
look  at,  and  nothing  but  a good  ’un  to  go)  laid 
a wager  with  twenty-five  other  men  last  night, 
whose  berths,  like  his,  are  in  the  fore-cabin 
which  can  only  be  got  at  by  crossing  the  deck, 
that  he  would  reach  his  cabin  first.  Watches 
were  set  by  the  captain’s,  and  they  sallied  forth, 
wrapped  up  in  coats  and  storm  caps.  The  sea 
broke  over  the  ship  so  violently,  that  they  were 
five  and  twenty  minutes  holding  on  by  the  hand- 
rail at  the  starboard  paddle-box,  drenched  to 
the  skin  by  every  wave,  and  not  daring  to  go 
on  or  come  back,  lest  they  should  be  washed 
overboard.  News ! A dozen  murders  in  town 
wouldn’t  interest  us  half  as  much.” 

Nevertheless  their  excitements  were  not  over. 
At  the  very  end  of  the  voyage  came  an  incident 
very  lightly  touched  in  the  Notes,  but  more 
freely  told  to  me  under  date  of  the  21st  January. 
“We  were  running  into  Halifax-harbour  on 
Wednesday  night,  with  little  wind  and  a bright 
moon  ; had  made  the  light  at  its  outer  entrance, 
and  given  the  ship  in  charge  to  the  pilot ; were 
playing  our  rubber,  all  in  good  spirits  (for  it  had 
Life  of  Charles  Dickens,  7. 


85 


been  comparatively  smooth  for  some  days,  with 
tolerably  dry  decks,  and  other  unusual  comforts), 
when  suddenly  the  ship  struck.  ! A rush  upon 
deck  followed  of  course.  The  men  (I  mean  the 
crew  ! think  of  this)  were  kicking  off  their  shoes 
and  throwing  off  their  jackets  preparatory  to 
swimming  ashore ; the  pilot  was  beside  himself ; 
the  passengers  dismayed ; and  everything  in  the 
most  intolerable  confusion  and  hurry.  Breakers 
were  roaring  ahead ; the  land  within  a couple 
of  hundred  yards ; and  the  vessel  driving  upon 
the  surf,  although  her  paddles  were  worked 
backwards,  and  everything  done  to  stay  her 
course.  It  is  not  the  custom  of  steamers,  it 
seems,  to  have  an  anchor  ready.  An  accident 
occurred  in  getting  ours  over  the  sides  ; and  for 
half  an  hour  we  were  throwing  up  rockets,  burn- 
ing blue  lights,  and  firing  signals  of  distress,  all 
of  which  remained  unanswered,  though  we  were 
so  close  to  the  shore  that  we  could  see  the  wav- 
ing branches  of  the  trees.  All  this  time,  as  we 
veered  about,  a man  was  heaving  the  lead  every 
two  minutes  ; the  depths  of  water  constantly  de- 
creasing ; and  nobody  self-possessed  but  Hewitt. 
They  let  go  the  anchor  at  last,  got  out  a boat, 
and  sent  her  ashore  with  the  fourth  officer,  the 
pilot,  and  four  men  aboard,  to  try  and  find  out 
where  we  were.  The  pilot  had  no  idea ; but 
Hewitt  put  his  little  finger  upon  a certain  part 
of  the  chart,  and  was  as  confident  of  the  exact 
spot  (though  he  had  never  been  there  in  his 
life)  as  if  he  had  lived  there  from  infancy.  The 
boat’s  return  about  an  hour  afterwards  proved 
him  to  be  quite  right.  We  had  got  into  a place 
called  the  Eastern-passage,  in  a sudden  fog  and 
through  the  pilot’s  folly.  We  had  struck  upon  a 
mud-bank,  and  driven  into  a perfect  little  pond, 
surrounded  by  banks  and  rocks  and  shoals  of 
all  kinds : the  only  safe  speck  in  the  place. 
Eased  by  this  report,  and  the  assurance  that  the 
tide  was  past  the  ebb,  we  turned  in  at  three 
o’clock  in  the  morning,  to  lie  there  all  night.” 
The  next  day’s  landing  at  Halifax,  and  de- 
livery of  the  mails,  are  sketched  in  the  Notes; 
but  not  his  personal  part  in  what  followed. 
“ Then,  sir,  comes  a breathless  man  who  has  been 
already  into  the  ship  and  out  again,  shouting  my 
name  as  he  tears  along.  I stop,  arm  in  arm 
with  the  little  doctor  whom  I have  taken  ashore 
for  oysters.  The  breathless  man  introduces 
himself  as  The  Speaker  of  the  house  of  assembly; 
will  drag  me  away  to  his  house  ; and  will  have 
a carriage  and  his  wife  sent  down  for  Kate,  who 
is  laid  up  with  a hideously  swoln  face.  Then  he 
drags  me  up  to  the  Governor’s  house  (Lord 
Falkland  is  the  governor),  and  then  Heaven 
knows  where ; concluding  with  both  houses  of 

415 


86 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DLCKENS. 


I 


parliament,  which  happen  to  meet  for  the  ses- 
sion that  very  day,  and  are  opened  by  a mock 
speech  from  the  throne  delivered  by  the  gover- 
nor, with  one  of  Lord  Grey’s  sons  for  his  aide- 
de-camp,  and  a great  host  of  officers  about  him. 

I wish  you  could  have  seen  the  crowds  cheering 
the  inimitable  in  the  streets.  I wish  you  could 
have  seen  judges,  law-officers,  bishops,  and  law- 
makers welcoming  the  inimitable.  I wish  you 
could  have  seen  the  inimitable  shown  to  a great 
elbow-chair  by  the  Speaker’s  throne,  and  sitting 
alone  in  the  middle  of  the  floor  of  the  house  of 
commons,  the  observed  of  all  observers,  listen- 
ing with  exemplary  gravity  to  the  queerest 
speaking  possible,  and  breaking  in  spite  of  him- 
self into  a smile  as  he  thought  of  this  commence- 
ment to  the  Thousand  and  One  stories  in  reserve 
for  home  and  Lincoln’s-inn-fields  and  Jack 
Straw’s-castle. — Ah,  Forster ! when  I do  come 
back  again  ! — — ” 

He  resumed  his  letter  at  Tremont-house  on 
Saturday  the  28th  of  January,  having  reached 
Boston  that  day  week  at  five  in  the  afternoon ; 
and  as  his  first  American  experience  is  very 
lightly  glanced  at  in  the  Notes,  a fuller  picture 
will  perhaps  be  welcome.  “ As  the  Cunard 
boats  have  a wharf  of  their  own  at  the  custom- 
house, and  that  a narrow  one,  we  were  a long 
time  (an  hour  at  least)  working  in.  I was  stand- 
ing in  full  fig.  on  the  paddle-box  beside  the  cap- 
tain, staring  about  me,  when  suddenly,  long 
before  we  were  moored  to  the  wharf,  a dozen 
men  came  leaping  on  board  at  the  peril  of  their 
lives,  with  great  bundles  of  newspapers  under 
their  arms ; worsted  comforters  (very  much  the 
worse  for  wear)  round  their  necks  ; and  so  forth. 

‘ Aha  ! ’ says  I,  ‘ this  is  like  our  London-bridge 
believing  of  course  that  these  visitors  were  news- 
boys. But  what  do  you  think  of  their  being 
Editors  ? And  what  do  you  think  of  their 
tearing  violently  up  to  me  and  beginning  to 
shake  hands  like  madmen  ? Oh  ! If  you  could 
have  seen  how  I wrung  their  wrists ! And  if 
you  could  but  know  how  I hated  one  man  in 
very  dirty  gaiters,  and  with  very  protruding 
upper  teeth,  who  said  to  all  comers  after  him, 

‘ So  you’ve  been  introduced  to  our  friend  Dickens 
— eh  ? ’ There  was  one  among  them,  though, 
who  really  was  of  use  ; a Doctor  S,  editor  of  the 

. He  ran  off  here  (two  miles  at  least),  and 

ordered  rooms  and  dinner.  And  in  course  of 
time  Kate  and  I,  and  Lord  Mulgrave  (who  was 
going  back  to  his  regiment  at  Montreal  on  Mon- 
day, and  had  agreed  to  live  with  us  in  the  mean- 
while) sat  down  in  a spacious  and  handsome 
room  to  a very  handsome  dinner,  ’bating  pecu- 
liarities of  putting  on  table,  and  had  forgotten 


the  ship  entirely.  A Mr.  Alexander,  to  whom  I 
had  written  from  England,  promising  to  sit  for  a 
portrait,  was  on  board  directly  we  touched  the 
land,  and  brought  us  here  in  his  carriage.  Then, 
after  sending  a present  of  most  beautiful  flowers, 
he  left  us  to  ourselves,  and  we  thanked  him 
for  it.” 

What  further  he  had  to  say  of  that  week’s 
experience,  finds  its  first  public  utterance  here. 
“ How  can  I tell  you,”  he  continues,  “ what  has 
happened  since  that  first  day  ? How  can  I give 
you  the  faintest  notion  of  my  reception  here  ; of 
the  crowds  that  pour  in  and  out  the  whole  day ; 
of  the  people  that  line  the  streets  when  I go  out ; 
of  the  cheering  when  I went  to  the  theatre  ; of 
the  copies  of  verses,  letters  of  congratulation, 
welcomes  of  all  kinds,  balls,  dinners,  assemblies 
without  end  ? There  is  to  be  a public  dinner  to 
me  here  in  Boston,  next  Tuesday,  and  great 
dissatisfaction  has  been  given  to  the  many  by 
the  high  price  (three  pounds  sterling  each)  of 
the  tickets.  There  is  to  be  a ball  next  Monday 
week  at  New  York,  and  150  names  appear  on 
the  list  of  the  committee.  There  is  to  be  a 
dinner  in  the  same  place,  in  the  same  week,  to 
which  I have  had  an  invitation  with  every 
known  name  in  America  appended  to  it.  But 
what  can  I tell  you  about  any  of  these  things 
which  will  give  you  the  slightest  notion  of  the 
enthusiastic  greeting  they  give  me,  or  the  cry 
that  runs  through  the  whole  country  ! I have 
had  deputations  from  the  Far  West,  who  have 
come  from  more  than  two  thousand  miles  dis- 
tance : from  the  lakes,  the  rivers,  the  back- 
woods,  the  log-houses,  the  cities,  factories,  vil- 
lages, and  towns.  Authorities  from  nearly  all 
the  States  have  written  to  me.  I have  heard 
from  the  universities,  congress,  senate,  and 
bodies,  public  and  private,  of  every  sort  and 
kind.  ‘ It  is  no  nonsense,  and  no  common 
feeling,’  wrote  Dr.  Channing  to  me  yesterday. 

‘ It  is  all  heart.  There  never  was,  and  never 
will  be,  such  a triumph.’  And  it  is  a good  thing, 
is  it  not,  ....  to  find  those  fancies  it  has  given 
me  and  you  the  greatest  satisfaction  to  think  of, 
at  the  core  of  it  all  ? It  makes  my  heart  quieter, 
and  me  a more  retiring,  sober,  tranquil  man  to 
watch  the  effect  of  those  thoughts  in  all  this 
noise  and  hurry,  even  than  if  I sat,  ]>en  in  hand, 
to  put  them  down  for  the  first  time.  I feel,  in 
the  best  aspects  of  this  welcome,  something  of 
the  presence  and  influence  of  that  spirit  which 
directs  my  life,  and  through  a heavy  sorrow  has 
pointed  upward  with  unchanging  finger  for  more 
than  four  years  past.  And  if  1 know  my  heart, 
not  twenty  timos  this  praise  would  move  me  to 
an  act  of  folly.”  .... 


•7 


FIRST  IMPRESSIONS.  87 


There  were  but  two  days  more  before  the 
post  left  for  England,  and  the  close  of  this  part 
of  his  letter  sketched  the  engagements  that 
awaited  him  on  leaving  Boston.  “ We  leave  here 
next  Saturday.  We  go  to  a place  called  Wor- 
cester, about  75  miles  off,  to  the  house  of  the 
governor  of  this  place;  and  stay  with  him  all 
Sunday.  On  Monday  we  go  on  by  railroad 
about  50  miles  farther  to  a town  called  Spring- 
field,  where  I am  met  by  a ‘ reception  com- 
mittee' from  Hartford  20  miles  farther,  and 
carried  on  by  the  multitude : I am  sure  I don’t 
know  how,  but  I shouldn’t  wonder  if  they  appear 
with  a triumphal  car.  On  Wednesday  I have  a 
public  dinner  there.  On  Friday  I shall  be 
obliged  to  present  myself  in  public  again,  at  a 
place  called  Newhaven,  about  30  miles  farther. 
On  Saturday  evening  I hope  to  be  at  New  York ; 
and  there  I shall  stay  ten  days  or  a fortnight. 
You  will  suppose  that  I have  enough  to  do.  I 
am  sitting  for  a portrait  and  for  a bust.  I have 
the  correspondence  of  a secretary  of  state,  and 
the  engagements  of  a fashionable  physician.  I 
have  a secretary  whom  I take  on  with  me.  He 
is  a young  man  of  the  name  of  Q ; was  strongly 
recommended  to  me ; is  most  modest,  obliging, 
silent,  and  willing  ; and  does  his  work  well. 
He  boards  and  lodges  at  my  expense  when  we 
travel ; and  his  salary  is  ten  dollars  per  month 
— about  two  pounds  five  of  our  English  money. 
There  will  be  dinners  and  balls  at  Washington, 
Philadelphia,  Baltimore,  and  I believe  every- 
where. In  Canada,  I have  promised  to  play  at 
the  theatre  with  the  officers,  for  the  benefit  of  a 
charity.  We  are  already  weary,  at  times,  past 
all  expression ; and  I finish  this  by  means  of  a 
pious  fraud.  We  were  engaged  to  a party,  and 
have  written  to  say  we  are  both  desperately  ill. 
. ‘ Well,’  I can  fancy  you  saying,  ‘ but 

about  his  impressions  of  Boston  and  the  Ameri- 
cans?’— Of  the  latter,  I will  not  say  a word 
until  I have  seen  more  of  them,  and  have  gone 
into  the  interior.  I will  only  say,  now,  that  we 
have  never  yet  been  required  to  dine  at  a table 
d’hote ; that,  thus  far,  our  rooms  are  as  much 
our  own  here,  as  they  would  be  at  the  Clarendon ; 
that  but  for  an  odd  phrase  now  and  then — such 
as  Snap  of  cold  weather ; a tongue-y  man  for  a 
talkative  fellow ; Possible  2 as  a solitary  interro- 
gation ; and  Yes  ? for  indeed — I should  have 
marked,  so  far,  no  difference  whatever  between 
the  parties  here  and  those  I have  left  behind. 
The  women  are  very  beautiful,  but  they  soon 
fade;  the  general  breeding  is  neither  stiff  nor 
forward ; the  good  nature,  universal.  If  you 
ask  the  way  to  a place — of  some  common  water- 
side man,  who  don’t  know  you  from  Adam — he 


turns  and  goes  with  you.  Universal  deference 
is  paid  to  ladies ; and  they  walk  about  at  all 

seasons,  wholly  unprotected This  hotel 

is  a trifle  smaller  than  Fiiusbury-square ; and  is 
made  so  infernally  hot  (I  use  the  expression 
advisedly),  by  means  of  a furnace  with  pipes 
running  through  the  passages,  that  we  can  hardly 
bear  it.  There  are  no  curtains  to  the  beds,  or 
to  the  bedroom  windows.  I am  told  there 
never  are,  hardly,  all  through  America.  The 
bedrooms  are  indeed  very  bare  of  furniture. 
Ours  is  nearly  as  large  as  your  great  room,  and 
has  a wardrobe  in  it  of  painted  wood  not  larger 
(I  appeal  to  K)  than  an  English  watch-box.  I 
slept  in  this  room  for  two  nights,  quite  satisfied 
with  the  belief  that  it  was  a shower  bath.” 

The  last  addition  made  to  this  letter,  from 
which  many  most  vivid  pages  of  the  Notes 
(among  them  the  bright  quaint  picture  of  Boston 
streets)  were  taken  with  small  alteration,  bore 
date  the  29th  of  January.  “ I hardly  know  what 
to  add  to  all  this  long  and  unconnected  history. 
Dana,  the  author  of  that  Two  Years  before  the 
Mastf  (a  book  which  I had  praised  much  to  him, 
thinking  it  like  De  Foe)  “ is  a very  nice  fellow 
indeed  ; and  in  appearance  not  at  all  the  man 
you  would  expect.  He  is  short,  mild-looking, 
and  has  a care-worn  face.  His  father  is  exactly 
like  George  Cruikshank  after  a night’s  jollity — 
only  shorter.  The  professors  at  the  Cambridge 
university,  Longfellow,  Felton,  Jared  Sparks,  are 
noble  fellows.  So  is  Kenyon’s  friend,  Ticknor. 
Bancroft  is  a famous  man ; a straightforward, 
manly,  earnest  heart ; and  talks  much  of  you, 
which  is  a great  comfort.  Doctor  Channing  I 
will  tell  you  more  of,  after  I have  breakfasted 


alone  with  him  next  Wednesday Sumner 

is  of  great  service  to  me The  president 


of  the  Senate  here  presides  at  my  dinner  on 
Tuesday.  Lord  Mulgrave  lingered  with  us  till 
last  Tuesday  (we  had  our  little  captain  to  dinner 
on  the  Monday),  and  then  went  on  to  Canada. 
Kate  is  quite  well,  and  so  is  Anne,  whose  smart- 
ness surpasses  belief.  They  yearn  for  home, 
and  so  do  I. 

“ Of  course  you  will  not  see  in  the  papers  any 
true  account  of  our  voyage,  for  they  keep  the 
dangers  of  the  passage,  when  there  are  any,  very 
quiet.  I observed  so  many  perils  peculiar  to 
steamers  that  I am  still  undecided  whether  we 
shall  not  return  by  one  of  the  New  York  liners. 
On  the  night  of  the  storm  I was  wondering 
within  myself  where  we  should  be,  if  the  chimney 
were  blown  overboard  : in  which  case,  it  needs 
no  great  observation  to  discover  that  the  vessel 
must  be  instantly  on  fire  from  stem  to  stern. 
When  I went  on  deck  next  day,  I saw  that  it 


88 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


was  held  up  by  a perfect  forest  of  chains  and 
ropes,  which  had  been  rigged  in  the  night. 
Hewitt  told  me  (when  we  were  on  shore,  not 
before)  that  they  had  men  lashed,  hoisted  up, 
and  swinging  there,  all  through  the  gale,  getting 


these  stays  about  it.  This  is  not  agreeable — 
is  it? 

“ I wonder  whether  you  will  remember  that 
next  Tuesday  is  my  birthday  ! This  letter  will 
leave  here  that  morning. 


IF  YOU  COULIJ  BUT  KNOW  HOW  I HATF.D  ONE  M.\N  IN  VERY  DIRTY  G.MTF.R.S,  AND  WITH  VERY  PROTRUDING 
UPPER  TF.ETH,  WHO  SAID  TO  ALL  COMERS  AFTER  HIM,  ‘SO  YOU’VE  BEEN  INTRODUCED  TO  OUR  FRIEND 
DICKENS — EH  '' 


“ On  looking  back  through  these  sheets,  I 
am  astonished  to  find  how  little  I have  told 
you,  and  how  much  I have,  even  now,  in  store 
which  shall  be  yours  by  word  of  mouth.  The 
American  poor,  the  American  factories,  the  in- 
stitutions of  all  kinds — I have  a book,  already. 


There  is  no  man  in  this  town,  or  in  this  Slate 
of  New  England,  who  has  not  a blazing  frrc  ami 
a meat  dinner  every  day  of  his  life.  A flaming 
sword  in  the  air  w'ould  not  attract  so  much 
attention  as  a beggar  in  the  streets,  'rhercareno 
charity  uniforms,  no  wearisome  repetition  of  the 


FIJ^ST  IMPRESSIONS. 


same  dull  ugly  dress,  in  that  blind  school.  All 
are  attired  alter  their  own  tastes,  and  every  boy 
and  girl  has  his  or  her  individuality  as  distinct 
and  unimpaired  as  you  would  find  it  in  their 
own  homes.  At  the  theatres,  all  the  ladies  sit 
in  the  fronts  of  the  bo.xes.  The  gallery  are  as 
quiet  as  the  dress  circle  at  dear  Drury-lane.  A 
man  with  seven  heads  would  be  no  sight  at  all, 
compared  with  one  who  couldn’t  read  and 
write. 

“I  won’t  speak  (I  say  ‘speak!’  I wish  I 
could)  about  the  dear  precious  children,  because 
I know  how  much  we  shall  hear  about  them 
when  we  receive  those  letters  from  home  for 
which  we  long  so  ardently.” 

Unmistakeably  to  be  seen,  in  this  earliest  of 
his  letters,  is  the  quite  fresh  and  unalloyed  im- 
pression first  received  by  him  at  this  memorable 
visit ; and  it  is  due,  as  well  to  himself  as  to  the 
country  which  welcomed  him,  that  this  should 
be  considered  independently  of  any  modification 
or  change  it  afterwards  underwent.  Of  the  fer- 
vency and  universality  of  the  rvelcome  there 
could  be  no  doubt,  and  as  little  that  it  sprang 
from  feelings  honourable  both  to  giver  and  re- 
ceiver. The  sources  of  Dickens’s  popularity  in 
England  were  in  truth  multiplied  many-fold  in 
^^merica.  The  hearty,  cordial,  and  humane  side 
of  his  genius,  had  fascinated  them  quite  as  much; 
but  there  was  also  something  beyond  this.  The 
■cheerful  temper  that  had  given  new  beauty  to 
the  commonest  forms  of  life,  the  abounding 
humour  which  had  added  largely  to  all  innocent 
enjoyment,  the  honourable  and  in  those  days 
rare  distinction  of  America  which  left  no  home 
in  the  Union  inaccessible  to  such  advantages, 
had  made  Dickens  the  object  everywhere  of 
grateful  admiration,  for  the  most  part  of  per- 
sonal affection.  But  even  this  was  not  all.  I 
do  not  say  it  either  to  lessen  or  increase  the 
value  of  the  tribute,  but  to  express  simply  what 
it  was ; and  there  cannot  be  a question  that  the 
young  English  author,  whom  by  his  language 
the  Americans  claimed  equally  for  their  own, 
was  almost  universally  regarded  by  them  as  a 
kind  of  embodied  protest  against  what  was  be- 
lieved to  be  worst  in  the  institutions  of  Eng- 
land, depressing  and  overshadowing  in  a social 
sense,  and  adverse  to  purely  intellectual  in- 
fluences. In  all  their  newspapers  of  every  grade 
at  the  time,  the  feeling  of  triumph  over  the 
mother-country  in  this  particular  is  predominant. 
You  worship  titles,  they  said,  and  military  heroes, 
and  millionaires,  and  we  of  the  New  World  want 
to  show  you,  by  extending  the  kind  of  homage 
that  the  Old  World  reserves  for  kings  and  con- 
querors to  a young  man  with  nothing  to  distin- 


89 


guish  him  but  his  heart  and  his  genius,  what  it 
is  we  think  in  these  parts  worthier  of  honour 
than  birth  or  wealth,  a title  or  a sword.  Well, 
there  was  something  in  this,  too,  apart  from  a 
mere  crowing  over  the  mother-country.  The 
Americans  had  honestly  more  than  a common 
share  in  the  triumphs  of  a genius,  which  in  more 
than  one  sense  had  made  the  deserts  and  wilder- 
nesses of  life  to  blossom  like  the  rose.  They 
were  entitled  to  select  for  a welcome,  as  em- 
phatic as  they  might  please  to  render  it,  the 
writer  who  pre-eminently  in  his  generation  had 
busied  himself  to  “ detect  and  save,”  in  human 
creatures,  such  sparks  of  virtue  as  misery  or  vice 
had  not  availed  to  extinguish  ; to  discover  what 
is  beautiful  and  comely,  under  what  commonly 
passes  for  the  ungainly  and  deformed  ; to  draw 
happiness  and  hopefulness  from  despair  itself ; 
and,  above  all,  so  to  have  made  known  to  his 
own  countrymen  the  wants  and  sufferings  of  the 
poor,  the  ignorant,  and  the  neglected,  that  they 
could  be  left  in  absolute  neglect  no  more.  “ A 
triumph  has  been  prepared  for  him,”  wrote  Mr. 
Ticknor  to  our  dear  friend  Kenyon,  “ in  which 
the  whole  country  will  join.  He  will  have  a 
progress  through  the  States  unequalled  since 
Lafayette’s.”  Daniel  Webster  told  the  Ameri- 
cans that  Dickens  had  done  more  already  to 
ameliorate  the  condition  of  the  English  poor 
than  all  the  statesmen  Great  Britain  had  sent 
into  Parliament.  His  sympathies  are  such,  ex- 
claimed Doctor  Channing,  as  to  recommend 
him  in  an  especial  manner  to  us.  He  seeks  out 
that  class,  in  order  to  benefit  them,  with  whom 
American  institutions  and  laws  sympathize  most 
strongly ; and  it  is  in  the  passions,  sufferings, 
and  virtues  of  the  mass  that  he  has  found  his 
subjects  of  most  thrilling  interest.  “ He  shows 
that  life  in  its  rudest  form  may  wear  a tragic 
grandeur  ; that  amidst  follies  and  excesses,  pro- 
voking laughter  or  scorn,  the  moral  feelings  do 
not  wholly  die ; and  that  the  haunts  of  the 
blackest  crime  are  sometimes  lighted  up  by  the 
presence  and  influence  of  the  noblest  souls.  His 
pictures  have  a tendency  to  awaken  sympathy 
with  our  race,  and  to  change  the  unfeeling  in- 
difference which  has  prevailed  towards  the  de- 
pressed multitude,  into  a sorrowful  and  indignant 
sensibility  to  their  wrongs  and  woes.” 

Whatever  may  be  the  turn  which  we  are  to 
see  the  welcome  take,  by  dissatisfaction  that 
arose  on  both  sides,  it  is  well  that  we  should 
thus  understand  what  in  its  first  manifestations 
was  honourable  to  both.  Dickens  had  his  dis- 
appointments, and  the  Americans  theirs;  but 
what  was  really  genuine  in  the  first  enthusiasm 
remained  without  grave  alloy  from  either ; and 


90 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


the  letters,  as  I proceed  to  give  them,  will  so 
naturally  explain  and  illustrate  the  mis-under- 
standing  as  to  require  little  farther  comment.  I 
place  here  on  record  two  letters  of  invitation  to 
public  entertainments  in  New  York  which  reached 
him  before  he  quitted  Boston.  The  mere  signa- 
tures suffice  to  show  how  universal  was  the  wel- 
come from  that  great  city  of  the  Union. 

“New  York,  24  January,  1842. 

“ To  Charles  Dickens,  Esq. 

“ Dear  Sir, 

“ The  undersigned,  for  themselves  and 
in  behalf  of  a wide  circle  of  their  fellow-citizens, 
desire  to  congratulate  you  on  your  safe  arrival, 
and  tender  to  you  a sincere  and  hearty  Wel- 
come. 

“ Tho’  personally  unknown,  still  we  can  assure 
you  that  you  will  find  yourself  no  stranger  among 
us ; that  genius  with  which  you  have  been  so 
signally  gifted,  and  which  your  pen  has  directed 
with  such  consummate  skill  in  delineating  every 
passion  and  sympathy  and  peculiarity  of  the 
human  mind,  has  secured  to  you  a passport  to 
all  hearts ; whilst  your  happy  personifications, 
and  apt  illustrations,  pointing  at  every  turn  a 
practical  and  fruitful  moral,  have  rendered 
your  name  as  familiar  to  us  as  household 
words. 

“ In  testimony  of  our  respect  and  high  regard, 
and  as  a slight,  tho’  thankful,  tribute  to  your 
genius,  we  request  that  you  will  name  as  early  a 
day  as  may  suit  your  convenience,  to  meet  us  in 
this  city  at  a public  dinner,  where,  as  elsewhere, 
it  will  be  our  pride  and  pleasure  to  express  our 
gratitude  to  you  for  the  many  such  intellectual 
feasts  you  have  so  often  spread  before  us. 

“ We  are  very  truly  and  cordially  your  friends, 

“ S.  Jones. 

W.  T.  McCosen. 

Sam.  R.  Betts. 

Jno.  Duck. 

Theodore  Sedgwick. 

\Vm.  Same.  Johnson. 

D.  S.  Kennedy. 

James  G.  King. 

Henry  Brevoort. 

Charles  AIarch. 

Anth.  Barclay. 

J.  Prescott  PIall. 

Jas.  Gallatin. 

John  A.  King. 

William  Kent. 

David  C.  Golden. 

G.  G.  Howland. 

James  J.  Jones. 

Jacob  B.  Le  Roy. 

M.  C.  Paterson. 


‘ Washington  Irving. 
Philip  Hone. 

Danl.  B.  T.allm.adge. 
H.  S.  Jones. 

Murray  Hoffman. 
Henry  Cary. 

Ch.  King. 

W.  C.  Bryant. 

W.  B.  Astor. 

Matukin  Livingston. 
Hamilton  Fisk. 

Jas.  D.  Ogden. 

M.  H.  Grinnell. 

Wm.  H.  Aspinnall. 
Edward  Curtis. 
Edward  Jones. 

Wm.  C.  Rhinelander. 
Ahm.  Schirmerstrong. 
TlIO.  M.  I.UDLOW. 

F itzG  reene  j I alleck. 
C.  W.  Augts.  Davis.” 


“New  York,  January  26,  1842. 


' Sir, 


“The  citizens  of  New  York  having  re- 
ceived the  agreeable  intelligence  of  your  arrival 
in  the  United  States,  and  appreciating  the  value 
of  your  labours  in  the  cause  of  humanity,  and 
the  eminently  successful  exercise  of  your  literary 
talents,  are  ambitious  to  be  among  the  foremost 
in  tendering  to  you  and  your  lady  the  hearty 
welcome  which  they  are  persuaded  is  in  reserve 
for  you  in  all  parts  of  our  country.  With  this 
object  in  view  we  have  been  appointed  a com- 
mittee in  behalf  of  a large  meeting  of  gentlemen 
convened  for  the  purpose,  to  request  your  at- 
tendance at  a public  ball  to  be  given  in  this 
city. 

“ Mr.  Golden,  one  of  our  number,  will  have 
the  honor  of  presenting  this  invitation,  and  is 
charged  with  the  agreeable  duty  of  presenting 
their  congratulations  on  your  arrival.  We  shall 
expect  thro’  him  your  kind  acceptance  of  this 
invitation,  and  your  designation  of  the  day  when 
it  may  suit  your  convenience  to  attend. 

“We  are,  Sir, 

“ With  great  respect, 

“ Yr.  obt.  servants. 


‘Robt.  H.  Morris. 
Philip  PIone. 

John  W.  P'rancis. 

J.  W.  Edmonds. 

Danl.  B.  Tallmadge. 

C.  W.  Augts.  Davis. 
John  C.  Cheesman. 

Wm.  H.  Maxwell. 
Duncan  C.  Pell. 
Prosper  M.  AVetmore. 
A.  M.  Couzens. 

John  R.  Livingston,  Jr. 
Wm.  B.  Dear. 

James  ^I.  Smith,  Jr. 
Wm.  Gr.andin. 
Waddell. 

D.  G.  Gregory. 

M.  PL  Grinnell. 


‘Wm.  Starr  Miller. 
P'.  A.  1'allmadge. 
Chas.  W.  San  afore. 
Geo.  P.  Morris. 
Saml.  P.  Lyman. 
Wm.  Turner. 

H.  Inman. 

A.  G.  Wong. 

R.  P'ayerweatiier. 
W.  R.  North.all. 
Martin  Hoffman. 

J.  Beckman  Fish. 
James  Phalen. 

AV.  H.  Appleton. 

S.  Draper,  Jr. 

P'.  W.  Edmonds. 

Jno.  S.  Bartlett. 
Jno.  Inman. 


■ To  Charles  Dickens,  Esq.,  &c.” 


III. 

SECOND  IMPRESSIONS. 

1842. 

T T IS  second  letter,  radiant  with  the  same 
kindly  warmth  that  gave  always  charm 
to  his  genius,  was  dated  from  the  Carlton-hotel, 
New  York,  on  the  14th  February,  but  its  only 
allusion  of  any  juiblic  interest  was  to  the  begin- 
ning of  his  agitation  of  the  question  of  inter- 
national copyright.  lie  went  to  America  with 


1 SECOND  IMPRESSIONS.  91 

no  express  intention  of  starting  this  question 
in  any  way ; and  certainly  with  no  belief  that 
such  remark  upon  it  as  a person  in  his  posi- 
tion could  alone  be  expected  to  make,  would 
be  resented  strongly  by  any  sections  of  the 
American  people.  But  he  was  not  long  left  in 
doubt  on  this  head.  He  had  spoken  upon  it 
twice  publicly,  *•  to  the  great  indignation  of  some 
of  the  editors  here,  who  are  attacking  me  for  so 
doing,  right  and  left.”  On  the  other  hand  all 
the  best  men  had  assured  him,  that,  if  only  at 
once  followed  up  in  England,  the  blow  struck 
might  bring  about  a change  in  the  law ; and, 
yielding  to  the  agreeable  delusion  that  the  best 
men  could  be  a match  for  the  worst  in  such  a 
matter,  he  urged  me  to  enlist  on  his  side  what 
force  was  obtainable,  and  in  particular,  as  he 
; had  made  Scott’s  claim  his  war  cry,  to  bring 
Lockhart  into  the  field.  I could  not  do  much, 
but  what  I could  was  done.  ^ 

Three  days  later  he  began  another  letter ; and, 
as  this  will  be  entirely  new  to  the  reader,  I shall 
print  it  as  it  reached  me,  with  only  such  omission 
of  matter  concerning  myself  as  I think  it  my 
duty,  however  reluctantly,  to  make  throughout 
these  extracts.  There  was  nothing  in  its  per- 
sonal details,  or  in  those  relating  to  international 
copyright,  available  for  his  Notes-,  from  which 
they  were  excluded  by  the  two  rules  he  observed 
in  that  book,  the  first  to  be  altogether  silent  as 
to  the  copyright  discussion,  and  the  second  to 
abstain  from  all  mention  of  individuals.  But 
there  can  be  no  harm  here  in  violating  either 
rule,  for,  as  Sydney  Smith  said  with  his  humor- 
ous sadness.  We  are  all  dead  now. 

“ Carlton-house,  New  York  : Thursday,  Febru- 
ary Seventeenth,  1842.  . . . As  there  is  a sailing- 
1 packet  from  here  to  England  to-morrow  which  is 
warranted  (by  the  owners)  to  be  a marvellous  fast 
sailer,  and  as  it  appears  most  probable  that  she 
' will  reach  home  (I  write  the  word  with  a pang) 

! before  the  Cunard  steamer  of  next  month,  I 
; indite  this  letter.  And  lest  this  letter  should 
! reach  you  before  another  letter  which  I dis- 
patched from  here  last  Monday,  let  me  say  in 
the  first  place  that  I did  dispatch  a brief  epistle 
to  you  on  that  day,  together  with  a newspaper, 
and  a pamphlet  touching  the  Boz  ball ; and  that 
I put  in  the  post-office  at  Boston  another  news- 
1 paper  for  you  containing  an  account  of  the 
1 dinner,  which  was  just  about  to  come  off,  you 
1 remember,  when  I wrote  to  you  from  that  city. 

“ It  was  a most  superb  affair ; and  the  speak- 
j ing  admirable.  Indeed,  the  general  talent  for 
public  speaking  here,  is  one  of  the  most  striking 
of  the  things  that  force  themselves  upon  an 
Englishman’s  notice.  As  every  man  looks  on  to 

being  a member  of  Congress,  every  man  pre- 
pares himself  for  it ; and  the  result  is  quite  sur- 
prising. You  will  observe  one  odd  custom — the 
drinking  of  sentiments.  It  is  quite  extinct  with 
us,  but  here  everybody  is  expected  to  be  pre- 
pared with  an  epigram  as  a matter  of  course. 

“ We  left  Boston  on  the  fifth,  and  went  away 
with  the  governor  of  the  city  to  stay  till  Monday 
at  his  house  at  Worcester.  He  married  a sister 
of  Bancroft’s,  and  another  sister  of  Bancroft’s 
went  dowm  with  us.  The  village  of  Worcester 

is  one  of  the  prettiest  in  New  England 

On  Monday  morning  at  nine  o’clock  we  started 
again  by  railroad  and  went  on  to  Springfield, 
where  a deputation  of  two  were  waiting,  and 
e verything  was  in  readiness  that  the  utmost  atten- 
tion could  suggest.  Owing  to  the  mildness  of  the 
weather,  the  Connecticut  river  was  ‘ open,’  vide- 
licet not  frozen,  and  they  had  a steamboat  ready 
to  carry  us  on  to  Hartford ; thus  saving  a land- 
joumey  of  only  twenty-five  miles,  but  on  such 
roads  at  this  time  of  year  that  it  takes  nearly 
twelve  hours  to  accomplish  ! The  boat  was  very 
small,  the  river  full  of  floating  blocks  of  ice,  and 
the  depth  where  we  went  (to  avoid  the  ice  and 
the  current)  not  more  than  a few  inches.  After 
two  hours  and  a half  of  this  queer  travelling  we 
got  to  Hartford.  There,  there  was  quite  an 
English  inn ; except  in  respect  of  the  bed-rooms, 
which  are  always  uncom^rtable ; and  the  best 
committee  of  management  that  has  yet  presented 
itself.  They  kept  us  more  quiet,  and  were  more 
considerate  and  thoughtful,  even  to  their  own 
exclusion,  than  any  I have  yet  had  to  deal  with. 
Kate’s  face  being  horribly  bad,  I determined  to 
give  her  a rest  here ; and  accordingly  wrote  to 
get  rid  of  my  engagement  at  Newhaven,  on  that 
plea.  We  remained  in  this  town  until  the 
eleventh  : holding  a formal  levee  every  day  for 
two  hours,  and  receiving  on  each  from  two  hun- 
dred to  three  hundred  people.  At  five  o’clock 
on  the  afternoon  of  the  eleventh,  w’e  set  off  (still 
by  railroad)  for  Newhaven,  which  we  reached 
about  eight  o’clock.  The  moment  we  had  had 
tea,  we  were  forced  to  open  another  levee  for 
the  students  and  professors  of  the  college  (the 
largest  in  the  States),  and  the  townspeople.  I 
suppose  we  shook  hands,  before  going  to  bed, 
with  considerably  more  than  five  hundred 
people ; and  I stood,  as  a matter  of  course,  the 
whole  time 

“ Now,  the  deputation  of  two  had  come  on 
with  us  from  Hartford ; and  at  Newhaven  there 
was  another  committee  ; and  the  immense  fatigue 
and  worry  of  all  this,  no  words  can  exaggerate. 
We  had  been  in  the  morning  over  jails  and  deaf 
and  dumb  asylums ; had  stopped  on  the  journey 

THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


92 


at  a place  called  Wallingford,  where  a whole 
town  had  turned  out  to  see  me,  and  to  gratify 
whose  curiosity  the  train  stopped  expressly  ; had 
had  a day  of  great  excitement  and  exertion  on 
the  Thursday  (this  being  Friday) ; and  were  in- 
expressibly worn  out.  And  when  at  last  we  got 
to  bed  and  were  ‘going’  to  fall  asleep,  the 
choristers  of  the  college  turned  out  in  a body, 
under  the  window,  and  serenaded  us  ! We  had 
had,  by  the  bye,  another  serenade  at  Hartford, 
from  a Mr.  Adams  (a  nephew  of  John  Quincey 
Adams)  and  a German  friend.  They  were  most 
beautiful  singers  ; and  when  they  began,  in  the 
dead  of  the  night,  in  a long,  musical,  echoing 
passage  outside  our  chamber  door ; singing,  in 
low  voices  to  guitars,  about  home  and  absent 
friends  and  other  topics  that  they  knew  would 
interest  us ; we  were  more  moved  than  I can  tell 
you.  In  the  midst  of  my  sentimentality  though, 
a thought  occurred  to  me  which  made  me  laugh 
so  immoderately  that  I was  obliged  to  cover  my 
face  with  the  bedclothes.  ‘ Good  Heavens  ! ’ I 
said  to  Kate,  ‘ what  a monstrously  ridiculous 
and  commonplace  appearance  my  boots  must 
have,  outside  the  door  ! ’ I never  ivas  so  im- 
pressed with  a sense  of  the  absurdity  of  boots, 
in  all  my  life. 

“The  Newhaven  serenade  was  not  so  good; 
though  there  were  a great  many  voices,  and  a 
‘ reg’lar  ’ band.  It  hadn’t  the  heart  of  the  other. 
Before  it  was  six  hours  old,  we  were  dressing 
with  might  and  main,  and  making  ready  for  our 
departure  : it  being  a drive  of  twenty  minutes  to 
the  steamboat,  and  the  hour  of  sailing  nine 
o’clock.  After  a hasty  breakfast  we  started  off ; 
and  after  another  levee  on  the  deck  (actually  on 
the  deck),  and  ‘ three  times  three  for  Dickens,’ 
moved  towards  New  York. 

“ I was  delighted  to  find  on  board  a Mr.  Fel- 
ton whom  1 had  known  at  Boston,  He  is  the 
Greek  professor  at  Cambridge,  and  was  going  on 
to  the  ball  and  dinner.  Like  most  men  of  his 
class  whom  I have  seen,  he  is  a most  delightful 
fellow — unaffected,  hearty,  genial,  jolly  ; quite  an 
Englishman  of  the  best  sort.  We  drank  all  the 
porter  on  board,  ate  all  the  cold  pork  and  cheese, 
and  were  very  merry  indeed.  I should  have 
told  you,  in  its  proper  place,  that  both  at  Hart- 
ford and  Newhaven  a regular  bank  was  sub- 
scribed, by  these  committees,  for  all  my  ex- 
penses. No  bill  was  to  be  got  at  the  bar,  and 
everything  was  paid  for.  But  as  I would  on  no 
account  suffer  this  to  be  done,  I stoutly  and 
positively  refused  to  budge  an  inch  until  Mr.  Q 
should  have  received  the  bills  from  the  land- 
lord’s own  hands,  and  paid  them  to  the  last 
farthing.  Finding  it  impossible  to  move  me. 


they  suffered  me,  most  unwillingly,  to  carry  the 
point. 

“ About  half  past  2,  we  arrived  here.  In  half 
an  hour  more,  we  reached  this  hotel,  where  a 
very  splendid  suite  of  rooms  was  prepared  for 
us ; and  where  everything  is  very  comfortable, 
and  no  doubt  (as  at  Boston)  enormously  dear. 
Just  as  we  sat  down  to  dinner,  David  Golden 
made  his  appearance ; and  when  he  had  gone, 
and  we  were  taking  our  wine,  Washington  Irving 
came  in  alone,  with  open  arms.  And  here  he 
stopped,  until  ten  o’clock  at  night.”  (Through 
Lord  Jeffrey,  with  whom  he  was  connected  by 
marriage,  and  Macready,  of  whom  he  was  the 
cordial  friend,  we  already  knew  Mr.  Golden  ; and 
his  subsequent  visits  to  Europe  led  to  many 
years’  intimate  and  much  enjoyed  intercourse.) 
“ Having  got  so  far,  I shall  divide  my  discourse 
into  four  points.  First,  the  ball.  Secondly, 
some  slight  specimens  of  a certain  phase  of  cha- 
racter in  the  Americans.  Thirdly,  international 
copyright.  Fourthly,  my  life  here,  and  projects 
to  be  carried  out  while  I remain. 

“ Firstly,  the  ball.  It  came  off  last  Monday 
(vide  pamphlet). 

“At  a quarter  past  9,  exactly”  (I  quote  the 
printed  order  of  proceeding),  “ we  were  waited 
upon  by  ‘ David  Golden,  Esquire,  and  General 
George  Morris  ;’  habited,  the  former,  in  full  ball 
costume,  the  latter  in  the  full  dress  uniform  of 
Heaven  knows  what  regiment  of  militia.  The 
general  took  Kate,  Golden  gave  his  arm  to  me, 
and  we  proceeded  downstairs  to  a carriage  at 
the  door,  which  took  us  to  the  stage  door  of  the 
theatre : greatly  to  the  disappointment  of  an 
enormous  crowd  who  were  besetting  the  main 
door,  and  making  a most  tremendous  hullaballoo. 
The  scene  on  our  entrance  was  very  striking. 
There  were  three  thousand  people  present  in 
full  dress  ; from  the  roof  to  the  floor,  the  theatre 
was  decorated  magnificently ; and  the  light, 
glitter,  glare,  show,  noise,  and  cheering,  baffle 
my  descriptive  powers.  We  were  walked  in 
through  the  centre  of  the  centre  dress-box,  the 
front  whereof  was  taken  out  for  the  occasion  ; so 
to  the  back  of  the  stage,  where  the  mayor  and 
other  dignitaries  received  us  ; and  we  were  then 
paraded  all  round  the  enormous  ball-room, 
twice,  for  the  gratification  of  the  many-headed. 
That  done,  we  began  to  dance — Heaven  knows 
how  we  did  it,  for  there  was  no  room.  And  we 
continued  dancing  until,  being  no  longer  able 
even  to  stand,  we  slipped  away  (piietly  and  came 
back  to  the  hotel.  All  the  documents  connected 
with  this  extraordinary  festival  (quite  uiqxi- 
rallcled  here)  we  have  preserved  ; so  you  may 
suppose  that  on  this  head  alone  we  shall  have 


SECOND  IMPRESSIONS. 


enough  to  show  you  when  we  come  home.  The 
bill  of  fare  for  supper,  is,  in  its  amount  and 
extent,  quite  a curiosity. 

“ Now,  the  phase  of  character  in  the  Ameri- 
cans which  amuses  me  most,  was  put  before  me 
in  its  most  amusing  shape  by  the  circumstances 
attending  this  affair.  I had  noticed  it  before, 
and  have  since,  but  I cannot  better  illustrate  it 
than  by  reference  to  this  theme.  Of  course  1 
can  do  nothing  but  in  some  shape  or  other  it 
gets  into  the  newspapers.  All  manner  of  lies 
get  there,  and  occasionally  a truth  so  twisted  and 
distorted  that  it  has  as  much  resemblance  to  the 
real  fact  as  Quilp’s  leg  to  Taglioni’s.  But  with 
this  ball  to  come  off,  the  newspapers  were  if 
possible  unusually  loquacious  ; and  in  their  ac- 
counts of  me,  and  my  seeings,  sayings,  and 
doings  on  the  Saturday  night  and  Sunday  before, 
they  describe  my  manner,  mode  of  speaking, 
dressing,  and  so  forth.  In  doing  this,  they  re- 
port that  I am  a very  charming  fellow  (of  course), 
and  have  a very  free  and  easy  way  with  me ; 
‘ which,’  say  they,  ‘ at  first  amused  a few  fashion- 
ables but  soon  pleased  them  exceedingly. 
Another  paper,  coming  after  the  ball,  dwells 
upon  its  splendour  and  brilliancy ; hugs  itself 
and  its  readers  upon  all  that  Dickens  saw ; and 
winds  up  by  gravely  expressing  its  conviction, 
that  Dickens  was  never  in  such  society  in  Eng- 
land as  he  has  seen  in  New  York,  and  that  its 
high  and  striking  tone  cannot  fail  to  make  an 
indelible  impression  on  his  mind  ! For  the 
same  reason  I am  always  represented,  whenever 
I appear  in  public,  as  being  ‘very  pale  ‘appa- 
rently thunderstruck  ; ’ and  utterly  confounded 

by  all  I see You  recognize  the  queer 

vanity  which  is  at  the  root  of  all  this  ? I have 
plenty  of  stories  in  connection  with  it  to  amuse 
you  with  when  I return. 

“ Twenty-fourth  February . 

“ It  is  unnecessary  to  say  ....  that  this 
letter  didti't  come  by  the  sailing  packet,  and 
will  come  by  the  Cunard  boat.  After  the  ball  I 
was  laid  up  with  a very  bad  sore  throat,  which 
confined  me  to  the  house  four  whole  days ; and 
as  I was  unable  to  write,  or  indeed  to  do  any- 
thing but  doze  and  drink  lemonade,  I missed 

the  ship I have  still  a horrible  cold,  and 

so  has  Kate,  but  in  other  respects  we  are  all 
right.  I proceed  to  my  third  head  : the  inter- 
national copyright  question. 

“ I believe  there  is  no  country,  on  the  face  of 
the  earth,  where  there  is  less  freedom  of  opinion 
on  any  subject  in  reference  to  which  there  is  a 

broad  difference  of  opinion  than  in  this 

There  ! — I write  the  words  with  reluctance,  dis- 


93 


appointment,  and  sorrow;  but  I believe  it  from 
the  bottom  of  my  soul.  I spoke,  as  you  know, 
of  international  copyright  at  Boston ; and  I spoke 
of  it  again  at  Hartford.  My  friends  were  para- 
lysed with  wonder  at  such  audacious  daring. 
The  notion  that  I,  a man  alone  by  himself,  in 
America,  should  venture  to  suggest  to  the  Ame- 
ricans that  there  was  one  iroint  on  which  they 
were  neither  just  to  their  own  countrymen  nor 
to  us,  actually  struck  the  boldest  dumb  ! Wash- 
ington Irving,  Prescott,  Hoffman,  Bryant,  Hal- 
leck,  Dana,  Washington  Allston — every  man 
who  writes  in  this  country  is  devoted  to  the 
question,  and  not  one  of  them  dares  to  raise  his 
voice  and  complain  of  the  atrocious  state  of  the 
law.  It  is  nothing  that  of  all  men  living  I am 
the  greatest  loser  by  it.  It  is  nothing  that  I 
have  a claim  to  speak  and  be  heard.  The  won- 
der is  that  a breathing  man  can  be  found  with 
temerity  enough  to  suggest  to  the  Americans 
the  possibility  of  their  having  done  wrong.  I wish 
you  could  have  seen  the  faces  that  I saw,  down 
both  sides  of  the  table  at  Hartford,  when  I 
began  to  talk  about  Scott.  I wish  you  could 
have  heard  how  I gave  it  out.  My  blood  so 
boiled  as  I thought  of  the  monstrous  injustice 
that  I felt  as  if  1 were  twelve  feet  high  when  I 
thrust  it  down  their  throats. 

“ I had  no  sooner  made  that  second  speech 
than  such  an  outcry  began  (for  the  purpose  of 
deterring  me  from  doing  the  like  in  this  city)  as 
an  Englishman  can  form  no  notion  of.  Anony- 
mous letters ; verbal  dissuasions  ; newspaper 
attacks  making  Colt  (a  murderer  who  is  attract- 
ing great  attention  here)  an  angel  by  comparison 
with  me ; assertions  that  I was  no  gentleman, 
but  a mere  mercenary  scoundrel ; coupled  with 
the  most  monstrous  mis-representations  relative 
to  my  design  and  purpose  in  visiting  the  United 
States ; came  pouring  in  upon  me  every  day. 
The  dinner  committee  here  (composed  of  the 
first  gentlemen  in  America,  remember  that)  were 
so  dismayed,  that  they  besought  me  not  to  pur- 
sue the  subject,  although  they  ei'ery  one  agreed 
with  me.  I answered  that  I would.  That  no- 
thing should  deter  me That  the  shame 

was  theirs,  not  mine ; and  that  as  I would  not 
spare  them  when  I got  home,  I would  not  be 
silenced  here.  Accordingly,  when  the  night 
came,  I asserted  my  right,  with  all  the  means  I 
could  command  to  give  it  dignity,  in  face,  man- 
ner, or  words  ; and  I believe  that  if  you  could 
have  seen  and  heard  me,  you  would  have  loved 
me  better  for  it  than  ever  you  did  in  your  life. 

“ The  New  York  Herald,  which  you  will  re- 
ceive with  this,  is  the  Satirist  of  America ; but 
having  a great  circulation  (on  account  of  its 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICIvENS. 


commercial  intelligence  and  early  news),  it  can 

afford  to  secure  the  best  reporters My 

speech  is  done,  upon  the  whole,  with  remark- 
able accuracy.  There  are  a great  many  typo- 
graphical errors  in  it ; and  by  the  omission  of 
one  or  two  words,  or  the  substitution  of  one 
word  for  another,  it  is  often  materially  weakened. 
Thus  I did  not  say  that  I ‘ claimed  ’ my  right, 
but  that  I ‘ asserted  ’ it ; and  I did  not  say  that 
I had  ‘ some  claim,’  but  that  I had  ‘ a most 
righteous  claim  ’ to  speak.  But  altogether  it  is 
very  correct.” 

Washington  Irving  was  chairman  of  this 
dinner,  and  having  from  the  first  a dread  that 
he  should  break  down  in  his  speech,  the  cata- 
strophe came  accordingly.  Near  him  sat  the  Cam- 
bridge professor  who  had  come  with  Dickens  by 
boat  from  Nevvhaven,  with  whom  already  a warm 
Iriendship  had  been  formed  that  lasted  for  life, 

I and  who  has  pleasantly  sketched  what  happened. 
Mr.  Felton  saw  Irving  constantly  in  the  interval 
of  preparation,  and  could  not  but  despond  at 
his  daily  iterated  foreboding  of  I shall  certainly 
break  down : though,  besides  the  real  dread, 
there  was  a sly  humour  which  heightened  its 
whimsical  horror  with  an  irresistible  drollery. 
But  the  professor  plucked  up  hope  a little  when 
the  night  came,  and  he  saw  that  Irving  had  laid 
under  his  plate  the  manuscript  of  his  speech. 
During  dinner,  nevertheless,  his  old  foreboding 
cry  was  still  heard,  and  “at  last  the  moment 
arrived  3 Mr.  Irving  rose  3 and  the  deafening 
and  long-continued  applause  by  no  means  less- 
ened his  aiaprehension.  He  began  in  his 
pleasant  voice  3 got  through  two  or  three  sen- 
tences pretty  easily,  but  in  the  next  hesitated  3 
and,  after  one  or  two  attempts  to  go  on,  gave  it 
up,  with  a graceful  allusion  to  the  tournament 
and  the  troop  of  knights  all  armed  and  eager  for 
the  fray  3 and  ended  with  the  toast  Charles 
Dickens,  the  guest  of  the  nation.  There! 
said  he,  as  he  resumed  his  seat  amid  applause 
as  great  as  had  greeted  his  rising,  There!  I told 
you  L should  break  down,  and  I've  done  it !"  He 
was  in  London  a few  months  later,  on  his  way 
to  Spain  3 and  I heard  Thomas  Moore  describe 
at  Rogers’s  table  the  difficulty  there  had  been  to 
overcome  his  reluctance,  because  of  this  break- 
down, to  go  to  the  dinner  of  the  Literary  Fund 
on  the  occasion  of  Prince  Albert’s  presiding. 
“ However,”  said  Moore,  “ I told  him  only  to 
attempt  a few  words,  and  I suggested  what  they 
should  be,  and  he  said  he’d  never  thought  of  any- 
thing so  easy,  and  he  went  and  did  famously.” 
I knew  very  well,  as  I listened,  that  this  had  not 
been  the  result  3 but  as  the  distinguished  Ame- 


rican had  found  himself,  on  this  second  occasion, 
not  among  orators  as  in  New  York,  but  among 
men  as  unable  as  himself  to  speak  in  public,  and 
equally  able  to  do  better  things,  he  was  doubt- 
less more  reconciled  to  his  own  failure.  I have 
been  led  to  this  digression  by  Dickens’s  silence 
on  his  friend’s  break-down.  He  had  so  great  a 
love  for  Irving  that  it  was  painful  to  speak  of 
him  as  at  any  disadvantage  3 and  of  the  N ew 
York  dinner  he  wrote  only  in  its  connection  with 
his  own  copyright  speeches. 


“ The  effect  of  all  this  copyright  agitation  at 
least  has  been  to  awaken  a great  sensation  on 
both  sides  of  the  subj  ect  3 the  respectable  news- 
papers and  reviews  taking  up  the  cudgels  as 
strongly  in  my  favour,  as  the  others  have  done 
against  me.  Some  of  the  vagabonds  take  great 
credit  to  themselves  (grant  us  patience  !)  for 
having  made  me  popular  by  publishing  my 
books  in  newspapers : as  if  there  were  no  Eng- 
land, no  Scotland,  no  Germany,  no  place  but 
America  in  the  whole  world.  A splendid  satire 
upon  this  kind  of  trash  has  just  occurred.  A 
man  came  here  yesterday,  and  demanded,  not 
besought,  but  demanded,  pecuniary  assistance  3 
and  fairly  bullied  Mr.  Q for  money.  When  I 
came  home,  I dictated  a letter  to  this  effect — 
that  such  applications  reached  me  in  vast  num- 
bers every  day  3 that  if  I were  a man  of  fortune, 
I could  not  render  assistance  to  all  who  sought 
it  3 and  that,  depending  on  my  own  exertion  for 
all  the  help  I could  give,  I regretted  to  say  I 
could  afford  him  none.  Upon  this,  my  gentle- 
man sits  down  and  writes  me  that  he  is  an 
itinerant  bookseller  3 that  he  is  the  first  man 
who  sold  my  books  in  New  York  3 that  he  is 
distressed  in  the  city  where  I am  revelling  in 
luxury  3 that  he  thinks  it  rather  strange  that  the 
man  who  wrote  Nicklcby  should  be  utterly  desti- 
tute of  feeling  3 and  that  he  would  have  me 
‘ take  care  I don’t  repent  it.’  What  do  you 
think  of  that as  Mac  would  say.  I thought 
it  such  a good  commentary,  that  I dispatched 
the  letter  to  the  editor  of  the  only  English 
newspaper  here,  and  told  him  he  might  print  it 
if  he  liked. 

“ I will  tell  you  what  I should  like,  my  dear 
friend,  always  supposing  that  your  judgment 
concurs  with  mine  3 and  that  you  would  take 
the  trouble  to  get  such  a document.  I should 
like  to  have  a short  letter  addressed  to  me,  by 
the  principal  English  authors  who  signed  the 
international  copyright  petition,  expressive  of 
their  sense  that  I have  done  my  duty  to  the 
cause.  I am  sure  I ilcserve  it,  but  I don’t  wish 
it  on  that  ground.  It  is  because  its  publication 


SECOND  IMPRESSIONS. 


95 


in  the  best  journals  here  would  unquestionably 
do  great  good.  As  the  gauntlet  is  down,  let  us 
go  on.  Clay  has  already  sent  a gentleman  to 
me  e.xpress  from  Washington  (where  I shall  be 
on  the  6th  or  7th  of  next  month)  to  declare  his 
strong  interest  in  the  matter,  his  cordial  ap- 
proval of  the  ‘ manly  ’ course  I have  held  in 
reference  to  it,  and  his  desire  to  stir  in  it  if 
possible.  I have  lighted  up  such  a blaze  that  a 
meeting  of  the  foremost  people  on  the  other 
side  (very  respectfully  and  properly  conducted 
in  reference  to  me,  personally,  I am  bound  to 
say)  was  held  in  this  town  t’other  night.  And 
it  would  be  a thousand  pities  if  we  did  not 
strike  as  hard  as  we  can,  now  tliat  the  iron  is 
so  hot. 

'•  I have  come  at  last,  and  it  is  time  I did,  to 
my  life  here,  and  intentions  for  the  future.  I 
can  do  nothing  that  I want  to  do,  go  nowhere 
where  I want  to  go,  and  see  nothing  that  I want 
to  see.  If  I turn  into  the  street,  I am  followed 
by  a multitude.  If  I stay  at  home,  the  house 
becomes,  with  callers,  like  a fair.  If  I visit  a 
public  institution,  with  only  one  friend,  the 
directors  come  down  incontinently,  waylay  me 
in  the  yard,  and  address  me  in  a long  speech. 
I go  to  a party  in  the  evening,  and  am  so  in- 
closed and  hemmed  about  by  people,  stand 
where  I will,  that  I am  exhausted  for  want  of 
air.  I dine  out,  and  have  to  talk  about  every- 
thing to  everybody.  I go  to  church  for  quiet, 
and  there  is  a violent  rush  to  the  neighbourhood 
of  the  pew  I sit  in,  and  the  clergyman  preaches 
at  me.  I take  my  seat  in  a railroad  car,  and 
the  very  conductor  won’t  leave  me  alone.  I 
get  out  at  a station,  and  can’t  drink  a glass  of 
water,  without  having  a hundred  people  looking 
down  my  throat  when  I open  my  mouth  to 
swallow.  Conceive  what  all  this  is  ! Then  by 
every  post,  letters  on  letters  arrive,  all  about 
nothing,  and  all  demanding  an  immediate 
answer.  This  man  is  offended  because  I won’t 
live  in  his  house ; and  that  man  is  thoroughly 
disgusted  because  I won’t  go  out  more  than 
four  times  in  one  evening.  I have  no  rest  or 
peace,  and  am  in  a perpetual  worry. 

“ Under  these  febrile  circumstances,  which 
this  climate  especially  favours,  I have  come  to 
the  resolution  that  I will  not  (so  far  as  my  will 
has  anything  to  do  with  the  matter)  accept  any 
more  public  entertainments  or  public  recogni- 
tions of  any  kind,  during  my  stay  in  the  United 
States ; and  in  pursuance  of  this  determination 
I have  refused  invitations  from  Philadelphia, 
Baltimore,  Washington,  Virginia,  Albany,  and 
Providence.  Heaven  knows  whether  this  will 
j be  effectual,  but  I shall  soon  see,  for  on  Mon- 


day morning  the  28th  we  leave  for  Philadelphia. 
There  I shall  only  stay  three  days.  Thence  we 
go  to  Baltimore,  and  tha-c  I shall  only  stay 
three  days.  Thence  to  Washington,  where  we 
may  stay  perhaps  ten  days;  perhaps  not  so 
long.  Thence  to  Virginia,  where  we  may  halt 
for  one  day ; and  thence  to  Charleston,  where 
we  may  pass  a week  perhaps ; and  where  we 
shall  very  likely  remain  until  your  March  letters 
reach  us,  through  David  Colden,  I had  a de- 
sign of  going  from  Charleston  to  Columbia  in 
South  Carolina,  and  there  engaging  a carriage, 
a baggage-tender  and  negro  boy  to  guard  the 
same,  and  a saddle-horse  for  myself — with  which 
caravan  I intended  going  ‘ right  away,’  as  they 
say  here,  into  the  west,  through  the  wilds  of 
Kentucky  and  Tennessee,  across  the  Alleghany- 
mountains,  and  so  on  until  we  should  strike  the 
lakes  and  could  get  to  Canada.  But  it  has 
been  represented  to  me  that  this  is  a track  only 
known  to  travelling  merchants ; that  the  roads 
are  bad,  the  country  a tremendous  waste,  the 
inns  log-houses,  and  the  journey  one  that  would 
play  the  very  devil  with  Kate.  I am  staggered, 
but  not  deterred.  If  I find  it  possible  to  be 
done  in  the  time,  I mean  to  do  it;  being 
quite  satisfied  that  without  some  such  dash,  I 
can  never  be  a free  agent,  or  see  anything  worth 
the  telling. 

“We  mean  to  return  home  in  a packet-ship — 
not  a steamer.  Her  name  is  the  George  Wash- 
ington, and  she  will  sail  from  here,  for  Liver- 
pool, on  the  seventh  of  June.  At  that  season 
of  the  year,  they  are  seldom  more  than  three 
weeks  making  the  voyage ; and  I never  will 
trust  myself  upon  the  wide  ocean,  if  it  please 
Heaven,  in  a steamer  again.  When  I tell  you 
all  that  I observed  on  board  that  Britannia,  I 
shall  astonish  you.  Meanwhile,  consider  two  of 
their  dangers.  First,  that  if  the  funnel  were 
blown  overboard,  the  vessel  must  instantly  be 
on  fire,  from  stem  to  stern : to  comprehend 
which  consequence,  you  have  only  to  under- 
stand that  the  funnel  is  more  than  40  feet  high, 
and  that  at  night  you  see  the  solid  fire  two  or 
three  feet  above  its  top.  Imagine  this  swept 
down  by  a strong  wind,  and  picture  to  yourself 
the  amount  of  flame  on  deck  ; and  that  a strong 
wind  is  likely  to  sweep  it  down  you  soon  learn, 
from  the  precautions  taken  to  keep  it  up  in  a 
storm,  when  it  is  the  first  thing  thought  of. 
Secondly,  each  of  these  boats  consumes  between 
London  and  Halifax  700  tons  of  coals;  and  it 
is  pretty  clear,  from  this  enormous  difference  of 
weight  in  a ship  of  only  1200  tons  burden  in  all, 
that  she  must  be  either  too  heavy  when  she 
comes  out  of  port,  or  too  light  when  she  goes 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


96 


in.  The  daily  difference  in  her  rolling,  as  she 
burns  the  coals  out,  is  something  absolutely 
fearful.  Add  to  all  this,  that  by  day  and  night 
she  is  full  of  fire  and  people,  that  she  has  no 
■boats,  and  that  the  struggling  of  that  enormous 
machinery  in  a heavy  sea  seems  as  though  it 
would  rend  her  into  fragments — and  you  may 
have  a pretty  considerable  damned  good  sort  of 
a feeble  notion  that  it  don’t  lit  nohow  ; and  that 
it  a’nt  calculated  to  make  you  smart,  overmuch ; 
and  that  you  don’t  feel  special  bright ; and  by 
no  means  first-rate  ; and  not  at  all  tonguey  (or 
•disposed  for  conversation)  ; and  that  however 
rowdy  you  may  be  by  natur’,  it  does  use  you  up 
com-plete,  and  that’s  a fact ; and  makes  you 
quake  considerable,  and  disposed  toe  damn  the 
engine  ! — All  of  which  phrases,  I beg  to  add, 
are  pure  Americanisms  of  the  first  water. 

“ When  we  reach  Baltimore,  we  are  in  the 
regions  of  slavery.  It  exists  there,  in  its  least 
shocking  and  most  mitigated  form  ; but  there  it 
is.  They  whisper,  here  (they  dare  only  whisper, 
you  know,  and  that  below  their  breaths),  that  on 
that  place,  and  all  through  the  South,  there  is  a 
dull  gloomy  cloud  on  which  the  very  word  seems 
written.  I shall  be  able  to  say,  one  of  these 
days,  that  I accepted  no  public  mark  of  respect 
in  any  place  where  slavery  was ; — and  that’s 
something. 

“The  ladies  of  America  are  decidedly  and  un- 
questionably beautiful.  Their  complexions  are 
not  so  good  as  those  of  Englishwomen  ; their 
beauty  does  not  last  so  long ; and  their  figures 
are  very  inferior.  But  they  are  most  beautiful. 

I still  reserve  my  opinion  of  the  national  cha- 
j racter — just  whispering  that  I tremble  for  a 

radical  coming  here,  unless  he  is  a radical  on 
principle,  by  reason  and  reflection,  and  from  the  1 
sense  of  right.  I fear  that  if  he  were  anything  ! 

else,  he  would  return  home  a tory I say 

no  more  on  that  head  for  two  months  from  this 
time,  save  that  I do  fear  that  the  heaviest  blow 
ever  dealt  at  liberty  will  be  dealt  by  this  country, 
in  the  failure  of  its  example  to  the  earth.  The 
scenes  that  are  passing  in  Congress  now,  all 
tending  to  the  separation  of  the  States,  fill  one 
with  such  a deep  disgust  that  I dislike  the  very 
name  of  Washington  (meaning  the  place,  not  the 
man),  and  am  repelled  by  the  mere  thought  of 
approaching  it. 

“ Twenty -seventh  February.  Sunday. 

“ There  begins  to  be  great  consternation  here, 
in  reference  to  the  Cunard  packet  which  (we 
suppose)  left  Liverpool  on  the  fourth.  She  has 
not  yet  arrived.  We  scarcely  know  what  to  do 
with  ourselves  in  our  extreme  ai^xicty  to  get 


letters  from  home.  I have  really  had  serious 
thoughts  of  going  back  to  Boston,  alone,  to  be 
nearer  news.  We  have  determined  to  remain 
here  until  Tuesday  afternoon,  if  she  should  not 
arrive  before,  and  to  send  Mr.  Q and  the  luggage 
on  to  Philadelphia  to-morrow  morning.  God 
grant  she  may  not  have  gone  down  : but  every 
ship  that  comes  in  brings  intelligence  of  a terrible 
gale  (which  indeed  was  felt  ashore  here)  on  the 
night  of  the  fourteenth;  and  the  sea-captains 
swear  (not  without  some  prejudice,  of  course) 
that  no  steamer  could  have  lived  through  it, 
supposing  her  to  have  been  in  its  full  fury.  As 
there  is  no  steam  packet  to  go  to  England,  sup- 
posing the  Caledonia  not  to  arrive,  we  are  obliged 
to  send  our  letters  by  the  Garrick  ship,  which 
sails  early  to-morrow  morning.  Consequently  I 
must  huddle  this  up,  and  dispatch  it  to  the  post- 
office  with  all  speed.  I have  so  much  to  say 
that  I could  fill  quires  of  paper,  which  renders 
this  sudden  pull-up  the  more  provoking. 

“ I have  in  my  portmanteau  a petition  for  an 
international  copyright  law,  signed  by  all  the  best 
American  writers  with  Washington  Irving  at 
their  head.  They  have  requested  me  to  hand 
it  to  Clay  for  presentation,  and  to  back  it  with 
any  remarks  I may  think  proper  to  offer.  So 
‘ Hoo-roar  for  the  principle,  as  the  money-lender 
said,  ven  he  vouldn’t  renoo  the  bill.’ 

“ God  bless  you You  know  what  I 

would  say  about  home  and  the  darlings.  A 

hundred  times  God  bless  you Fears  are 

entertained  for  Lord  Ashburton  also.  Nothing 
has  been  heard  of  him.” 

A brief  letter,  sent  me  next  day  by  the 
minister’s  bag,  was  in  effect  a postscript  to  the 
foregoing ; and  expressed  still  more  strongly  the 
apprehensions  his  voyage  out  had  impressed  him 
with,  and  which,  though  he  afterwards  saw  reason 
greatly  to  modify  them,  were  not  so  strange  at 
tliat  time  as  they  appear  to  us  now. 

Carlton-house,  New  York,  February  twenty- 

eighth,  1842 The  Caledonia,  I grieve 

and  regret  to  say,  has  not  arrived.  It  she  left 
England  to  her  time,  she  has  been  lour  and 
twenty  days  at  sea.  'I  here  is  no  news  of  her  ; 
and  on  the  niglits  of  the  fourteenth  and  eigh- 
teenth it  blew  a terrible  gale,  which  almost  justi- 
fies the  worst  suspicions.  For  myself,  I have 
hardly  any  hojK'  of  her ; having  seen  cnough,^  in 
our  passage  out,  to  convince  me  that  steaming 
across  the  ocean  in  heavy  weather  is  as  yet  an 
exjreriment  of  the  utmost  hazartl. 

“As  it  was  siqiposed  that  there  wouUl  be  no 
steamer  whatever  for  England  this  month  (since 
in  ordinary  course  the  Caledonia  would  have  re- 


SECOND  IMPRESSIONS.  97 


turned  with  the  mails  on  the  2nd  of  March),  I 
hastily  got  the  letters  ready  yesterday  and  sent 
them  by  the  Garrick ; which  may  perhaps  be 
three  weeks  out,  but  is  not  very  likely  to  be 
longer.  Cut  belonging  to  the  Cunard  company 
is  a boat  called  the  Unicorn,  which  in  the 
summer  time  plies  up  the  St.  Lawrence,  and 
brings  passengers  from  Canada  to  join  the 
British  and  North  American  steamers  at  Hali- 
fax. In  tlie  winter  she  lies  at  the  last-mentioned 
place  ; from  which  news  has  come  this  morning 
that  they  have  sent  her  on  to  Boston  for  the 
mails  ; and,  rather  than  interrupt  the  communi- 
cation, mean  to  dispatch  her  to  England  in  lieu 
of  the  poor  Caledonia.  This  in  itself,  by  the 
way,  is  a daring  deed ; for  she  was  originally 
built  to  run  between  Liverpool  and  Glasgow, 
and  is  no  more  designed  for  the  Atlantic  than  a 
Calais  packet-boat;  though  she  once  crossed  it, 
in  the  summer  season. 

“You  may  judge,  therefore,  what  the  owners 
think  of  the  probability  of  the  Caledonia’s  arrival. 
How  slight  an  alteration  in  our  plans  would  have 
made  us  passengers  on  board  of  her  ! 

“ It  would  be  difficult  to  tell  you,  my  dear 
fellow,  what  an  impression  this  has  made  upon 
our  minds,  or  with  what  intense  anxiety  and 
suspense  we  have  been  waiting  for  your  letters 
from  home.  We  were  to  have  gone  South  to- 
day, but  linger  here  until  to-morrow  afternoon 
(having  sent  the  secretary  and  luggage  forward) 
for  one  more  chance  of  news.  Love  to  dear 
Macready,  and  to  dear  Mac,  and  every  one  we 
care  for.  It’s  useless  to  speak  of  the  dear  chil- 
dren. It  seems  now  as  though  we  should  never 
hear  of  them 

“ P.S.  Washington  Irving  is  a great  fellow. 
We  have  laughed  most  heartily  together.  He  is 
just  the  man  he  ought  to  be.  So  is  Doctor 
Channing,  with  whom  I have  had  an  interesting 
correspondence  since  I saw  him  last  at  Boston. 
Halleck  is  a merry  little  man.  Bryant  a sad 
one,  and  very  reserved.  Washington  Allston  the 
painter  (who  wrote  Monaldi)  is  a fine  specimen 
of  a glorious  old  genius.  Longfellow,  whose 
volume  of  poems  I have  got  for  you,  is  a frank 
accomplished  man  as  well  as  a fine  writer,  and 
will  be  in  town  ‘ next  fall.’  Tell  Macready  that 
I suspect  prices  here  must  have  rather  altered 
since  his  time.  I paid  our  fortnight’s  bill  here, 
last  night.  We  have  dined  out  every  day  (except 
when  I was  laid  up  with  a sore  throat),  and  only 
had  in  all  four  bottles  of  wine.  The  bill  was  70/. 
English  ! ! ! 

“ You  will  see,  by  my  other  letter,  how  we 
have  been  feted  and  feasted ; and  how  there  is 
war  to  the  knife  about  the  international  copy- 


right ; and  how  I will  speak  about  it,  and  decline 

to  be  put  down 

“ Oh  for  news  from  home  ! I think  of  your 
letters  so  full  of  heart  and  friendship,  with  per- 
haps a little  scrawl  of  Charley’s  or  Mamey’s, 
lying  at  the  bottom  of  the  deep  sea  ; and  am  as 
full  of  sorrow  as  if  they  had  once  been  living 
creatures. — Well  ! they  7uay  come,  yet.” 


They  did  reach  him,  but  not  by  the  Caledonia. 
His  fears  as  to  that  vessel  were  but  too  well 
founded.  On  the  very  day  when  she  was  due 
in  Boston  (the  i8th  of  February)  it  was  learnt  in 
London  that  she  had  undergone  misadventure 
that,  her  decks  having  been  swept  and  her  rudder 
torn  away,  though  happily  no  lives  were  lost,  she 
had  returned  disabled  to  Cork ; and  that  the 
Acadia,  having  received  her  passengers  and 
mails,  was  to  sail  with  them  from  Liverpool  next 
day. 

Of  the  main  subject  of  that  letter  written  on 
the  day  preceding  ; of  the  quite  unpremeditated 
impulse,  out  of  which  sprang  his  advocacy  of 
claims  which  he  felt  to  be  represented  in  his 
person ; of  the  injustice  done  by  his  entertainers 
to  their  guest  in  ascribing  such  advocacy  to  self- 
ishness ; and  of  the  graver  wrong  done  by  them 
to  their  own  highest  interests,  nay,  even  to  their 
commonest  and  most  vulgar  interests,  in  con- 
tinuing to  reject  those  claims  ; I will  add  nothing 
now  to  what  all  those  years  ago  I laboured  very 
hard  to  lay  before  many  readers.  It  will  be 
enough  if  I here  print,  from  the  authors’  letters 
I sent  out  to  him  by  the  next  following  mail  in 
compliance  with  his  wish,  this  which  follows 
Irom  a very  dear  friend  of  his  and  mine.  I for- 
tunately had  it  transcribed  before  I posted  it  to 
him  ; Mr,  Carlyle  having  in  some  haste  written 
from  “Templand,  26  March,  1842,”  and  taken 
no  copy. 

“ We  learn  by  the  newspapers  that  you  every- 
where in  America  stir  up  the  question  of  inter- 
national copyright,  and  thereby  awaken  huge- 
dissonance  where  all  else  were  triumphant  uni- 
son for  you.  I am  asked  my  opinion  of  the 
matter,  and  requested  to  write  it  down  in  words. 

“ Several  years  ago,  if  memory  err  not,  I was 
one  of  many  English  writers,  who,  under  the 
auspices  of  Miss  Martineau,  did  already  sign  a 
petition  to  congress  praying  for  an  international 
copyright  between  the  two  Nations, — which  pro- 
perly are  not  two  Nations,  but  one  ; indivisible 
by  parliament,  congress,  or  any  kind  of  human 
law  or  diplomacy,  being  already  united  by 
Heaven’s  Act  of  Parliament,  and  the  everlast- 
ing law  of  Nature  and  Fact.  To  that  opinion  I 
still  adhere,  and  am  like  to  continue  adhering. 


98 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“ In  discussion  of  the  matter  before  any  con- 
gress or  parliament  manifold  considerations  and 
argumentations  will  necessarily  arise  ; which  to 
me  are  not  interesting,  nor  essential  for  helping 
me  to  a decision.  They  respect  the  time  and 
manner  in  which  the  thing  should  be ; not  at 
all  whether  the  thing  should  be  or  not.  In  an 
ancient  book,  reverenced  I should  hope  on  both 
sides  of  the  Ocean,  it  was  thousands  of  years 
ago  written  down  in  the  most  decisive  and  ex- 
plicit manner,  ‘ 'bhou  s/iaL  not  steal.’  That  thou 
belongest  to  a different  ‘ Nation,’  and  canst  steal 
without  being  certainly  hanged  for  it,  gives  thee 
no  permission  to  steal ! Thou  shalt  not  in  any- 
wise steal  at  all ! So  it  is  written  down,  for 
Nations  and  for  men,  in  the  I.aw-Book  of  the 
Maker  of  this  Universe.  Nay,  poor  Jeremy 
Bentham  and  others  step  in  here,  and  will  de- 
monstrate that  it  is  actually  our  true  convenience 
and  expediency  not  to  steal ; which  I for  my 
share,  on  the  great  scale  and  on  the  small,  and 
in  all  conceivable  scales  and  shapes,  do  also 
firmly  believe  it  to  be.  For  example,  if  Nations 
abstained  from  stealing,  what  need  were  there  of 
fighting, — with  its  butcherings  and  burnings,  de- 
cidedly the  most  expensive  thing  in  this  world  ? 
How  much  more  two  Nations,  which,  as  I said, 
are  but  one  Nation  ; knit  in  a thousand  ways  by 
Nature  and  Practical  Intercourse ; indivisible 
brother  elements  of  the  same  great  Saxondom, 
to  which  in  all  honourable  ways  be  long  life  ! 

“ When  Mr.  Robert  Roy  M'Gregor  lived  in 
the  district  of  Menteith  on  the  Highland  border 
two  centuries  ago,  he  for  his  part  found  it  more 
convenient  to  sujrply  himself  with  beef  by  steal- 
ing it  alive  from  the  adjacent  glens,  than  by  buy- 
ing it  killed  in  the  Stirling  butchers’-market.  It 
was  Mr.  Roy’s  plan  of  supplying  himself  with  beef 
in  those  days,  this  of  stealing  it.  In  many  a little 
‘ Congress  ’ in  the  district  of  Menteith,  there  was 
debating,  doubt  it  not,  and  much  specious  argu- 
mentation this  way  and  that,  before  they  could 
ascertain  that,  really  and  truly,  buying  was  the 
best  way  to  get  your  beef ; which  however  in 
the  long  run  they  did  witlr  one  assent  find  it  in- 
disputably to  be  : and  accordingly  they  hold  by 
it  to  this  day.'’ 

This  brave  letter  was  an  important  service 
rendered  at  a critical  time,  and  Dickens  was 
very  grateful  for  it.  But,  as  time  went  on,  he 
had  other  and  higher  causes  for  gratitude  to  its 
writer.  Admiration  of  Carlyle  increased  with 
iris  years ; and  there  was  no  one  whom  in  later 
life  he  honoured  so  much,  or  had  a more  pro- 
found regard  for. 


IV. 

PHILADELPHIA  AND  THE  SOUTH. 

1842. 

ICKENS’S  next  letter  was  begun 
in  the  “ United-states-hotel,  Phila- 
delphia,” and  bore  date  Sunday, 
^ sixth  March,  1842.”  It  treated  of 
much  dealt  with  afterwards  at 
greater  length  in  the  Notes,  but  the 


much 


freshness  and  vivacity  of  the  first  im 
pressions  in  it  have  surprised  me.  I do 
not  however  print  any  passage  here  which  has 
not  its  own  interest  independently  of  anything 
contained  in  that  book.  The  rule  will  be  con- 
tinued, as  in  the  portions  of  letters  already  given, 
of  not  transcribing  anything  before  printed,  or 
anything  having  even  but  a near  resemblance  to 
descriptions  that  appear  in  the  Notes. 

“ ....  As  this  is  likely  to  be  the  only  quiet 
day  I shall  have  for  a long  time,  I devote  it  to 
writing  to  you.  We  have  heard  nothing  from 
you  yet,  and  only  have  for  our  consolation  the 
reflection  that  the  Columbia  is  now  on  her  way 
out.  No  news  had  been  heard  of  the  Caledonia 
yesterday  afternoon,  when  we  left  New  York. 
We  7vcrc  to  have  quitted  that  place  last  Tuesday, 
but  have  been  detained  there  all  the  week  by 
Kate  having  so  bad  a sore  throat  that  she  was 
obliged  to  keep  her  bed.  We  left  yesterday 
afternoon  at  five  o’clock,  and  arrived  here  at 
eleven  last  night.  Let  me  say,  by  the  way,  that 
this  is  a very  trying  climate. 

“ I have  often  asked  Americans  in  London 
which  were  the  better  railroads — ours  or  theirs  ? 
They  have  taken  time  for  reflection,  and  gene- 
rally replied,  on  mature  consideration,  that  they 
rather  thought  we  excelled ; in  respect  of  the 
punctuality  with  which  we  arrived  at  our  stations, 
and  the  smoothness  of  our  travelling.  I wish 
you  could  see  what  an  American  railroad  is,  in 
some  parts  where  I now  have  seen  them.  I 
won’t  say  I wish  you  could  feel  what  it  is, 
because  that  would  be  an  unchristian  and  savage 
aspiration.  It  is  never  inclosed,  or  warded  otf. 
You  walk  down  the  main  street  of  a large  town: 
and,  slap-dash,  headlong,  pell-mell,  down  the 
middle  of  the  street ; with  pigs  burrowing,  and 
boys  flying  kites  and  playing  marbles,  and  men 
smoking,  and  women  talking,  and  children  crawl- 
ing, close  to  the  very  rails  ; there  comes  tearing 
along  a mad  locomotive  with  its  train  of  cars, 
scattering  a red-hot  shower  of  sparks  (from  its 
7uood  fire)  in  all  directions;  screeching,  hissing, 
yelling,  and  panting ; and  nobody  one  atom 


rillLADELPHlA  AND  THE  SOUTH. 


more  concerned  than  if  it  were  a luindred  miles 
away.  You  cross  a turnpike-road  ; and  there  is 
no  gate,  no  policeman,  no  signal — nothing  to 
keep  the  wayfarer  or  quiet  traveller  out  of  the 
way,  but  a wooden  arch  on  which  is  written  in 
great  letters  ‘ Look  out  for  the  locomotive.’ 
And  if  any  man,  woman,  or  child,  don’t  look  out, 
why  it’s  his  or  her  fault,  and  there’s  an  end  of  it. 

“ The  cars  are  like  very  shabby  omnibuses — 
only  larger ; holding  sixty  or  seventy  people. 
The  seats,  instead  of  being  placed  long  ways, 
are  put  cross-wise,  back  to  front.  Each  holds 
two.  There  is  a long  row  of  these  on  each  side 
of  the  caravan,  and  a narrow  passage  up  the 
centre.  The  windows  are  usually  all  closed,  and 
there  is  very  often,  in  addition,  a hot,  close, 
most  intolerable  charcoal  stove  in  a red-hot  glow. 
The  heat  and  closeness  are  quite  insupportable. 
But  this  is  the  characteristic  of  all  American 
houses,  of  all  the  public  institutions,  chapels, 
theatres,  and  prisons.  From  the  constant  use 
of  the  hard  anthracite  coal  in  these  beastly  fur- 
naces, a perfectly  new  class  of  diseases  is  spring- 
ing up  in  the  country.  Their  effect  upon  an 
Englishman  is  briefly  told.  He  is  always  very 
sick  and  very  faint ; and  has  an  intolerable  head- 
ache, morning,  noon,  and  night. 

“ In  the  ladies’  car,  there  is  no  smoking  of 
tobacco  allowed.  All  gentlemen  who  have 
ladies  with  them,  sit  in  this  car  : and  it  is  usually 
very  full.  Before  it  is  the  gentlemen’s  car ; 
which  is  something  narrower.  As  I had  a win- 
dow close  to  me  yesterday  which  commanded 
this  gentlemen’s  car,  I looked  at  it  pretty  often, 
perforce.  The  flashes  of  saliva  flew  so  per- 
petually and  incessantly  out  of  the  windows  all 
the  way,  that  it  looked  as  though  they  were 
ripping  open  feather-beds  inside,  and  letting  the 
wind  dispose  of  the  feathers.  But  this  spitting 
is  universal.  In  the  courts  of  law  the  judge  has 
his  spittoon  on  the  bench,  the  counsel  have 
theirs,  the  witness  has  his,  the  prisoner  his,  and 
the  crier  his.  The  jury  are  accommodated  at 
the  rate  of  three  men  to  a spittoon  (or  spit-box 
as  they  call  it  here) ; and  the  spectators  in  the 
gallery  are  provided  for,  as  so  many  men  who  in 
the  course  of  nature  expectorate  without  cessa- 
tion. There  are  spit-boxes  in  every  steamboat, 
bar-room,  public  dining-room,  house  of  offlce, 
and  place  of  general  resort,  no  matter  what  it 
be.  In  the  hospitals,  the  students  are  requested, 
by  placard,  to  use  the  boxes  provided  for  them, 
and  not  to  spit  upon  the  stairs.  I have  twice 
seen  gentlemen,  at  evening  parties  in  New  York, 
turn  aside  when  they  were  not  engaged  in  con- 
versation, and  spit  upon  the  drawing-room  car- 
pet. And  in  every  bar-room  and  hotel  passage 


99 


the  stone  floor  looks  as  if  it  were  paved  with 
open  oysters — from  the  quantity  of  this  kind  of 

deposit  which  tesselates  it  all  over 

“ The  institutions  at  Boston,  and  at  Hartford, 
are  most  admirable.  It  would  be  very  difficult 
indeed  to  improve  upon  them.  But  this  is  not 
so  at  New  York ; where  there  is  an  ill-managed 
lunatic  asylum,-^  bad  jail,  a dismal  workhouse, 
and  a perfectly  intolerable  place  of  police-im- 
prisonment. A man  is  found  drunk  in  the 
streets,  and  is  thrown  into  a cell  below  the  sur- 
face of  the  earth ; profoundly  dark ; so  full  of 
noisome  vapours  that  when  you  enter  it  with  a 
candle  you  see  a ring  about  the  light,  like  that 
which  surrounds  the  moon  in  wet  and  cloudy 
weather  ; and  so  offensive  and  disgusting  in  its 
filthy  odours,  that  you  cannot  bear  its  stench. 

He  is  shut  up  within  an  iron  door,  in  a series  of 
vaulted  passages  where  no  one  stays ; has  no  drop 
of  water,  or  ray  of  light,  or  visitor,  or  help  of  any 
kind ; and  there  he  remains  until  the  magistrate’s 
arrival.  If  he  die  (as  one  man  did  not  long 
ago)  he  is  half  eaten  by  the  rats  in  an  hour’s 
time  (as  this  man  was).  I expressed,  on  seeing 
these  places  the  other  night,  the  disgust  I felt, 
and  which  it  would  be  impossible  to  repress. 
‘Well;  I don’t  know,’ said  the  night  constable 
— that’s  a national  answer  by  the  bye — ‘Well ; I 
don’t  know.  I’ve  had  six  and  twenty  young 
women  locked  up  here  together,  and  beautiful  i 

ones  too,  and  that’s  a fact.’  The  cell  was  cer-  j 

tainly  no  larger  than  the  wine-cellar  in  Devon-  | 
shire-terrace ; at  least  three  feet  lower ; and  j 
stunk  like  a common  sewer.  There  was  one 
woman  in  it,  then.  The  magistrate  begins  his 
examinations  at  five  o’clock  in  the  morning ; the 
watch  is  set  at  seven  at  night ; if  the  prisoners 
have  been  given  in  charge  by  an  officer,  they  are 
not  taken  out  before  nine  or  ten ; and  in  the 
interval  they  remain  in  these  places,  where  they 
could  no  more  be  heard  to  cry  for  help,  in  case 
of  a fit  or  swoon  among  them,  than  a man’s 
voice  could  be  heard  after  he  was  coffined  up  in  | 
his  grave.  j 

“ There  is  a prison  in  the  same  city,  and  j 
indeed  in  the  same  building,  where  prisoners  for 
grave  offences  await  their  trial,  and  to  which  they  | 
are  sent  back  when  under  remand.  It  sometimes  | 
happens  that  a man  or  woman  will  remain  here  j 
for  twelve  months,  waiting  the  result  of  motions  ^ 
for  new  trial,  and  in  arrest  of  judgment,  and  j | 
what  not.  I went  into  it  the  other  day  ; without  | 
any  notice  or  preparation,  otherwise  I find  it  ; 
difficult  to  catch  them  in  their  work-a-day  aspect.  ' 
I stood  in  a long,  high,  narrow  building,  con- 
sisting of  four  galleries  one  above  the  other, 
with  a bridge  across  each,  on  which  sat  a turn- 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


key,  sleeping  or  reading  as  the  case  might  be. 
From  the  roof,  a couple  of  wind-sails  dangled 
and  drooped,  limp  and  useless ; the  skylight 
being  fast  closed,  and  they  only  designed  for 
summer  use.  In  the  centre  of  the  building  was 
the  eternal  stove ; and  along  both  sides  of  every 
gallery  was  a long  row  of  iron  doors — looking 
like  furnace  doors,  being  very  small,  but  black 
and  cold  as  if  the  fires  within  had  gone  out. 

“ A man  with  keys  appears,  to  show  us  round. 
A good-looking  fellow,  and,  in  his  way,  civil 
and  obliging.”  (I  omit  a dialogue  of  which  the 
substance  has  been  printed,  and  give  only  that 
which  appears  for  the  first  time  here.) 

“ ‘ Suppose  a man’s  here  for  twelve  months. 
Do  you  mean  to  say  he  never  comes  out  at  that 
little  iron  door  ? ’ 

“ ‘ He  may  walk  some,  perhaps — not  much.’ 

‘‘  ‘ Will  you  show  me  a few  of  them  ? ’ 

“ ‘ Ah  ! All,  if  you  like.’  % 

“ He  threw  open  a door,  and  I looked  in. 
An  old  man  was  sitting  on  his  bed,  reading. 
The  light  came  in  through  a small  chink,  very 
high  up  in  the  wall.  Across  the  room  ran  a 
thick  iron  pipe  to  carry  off  filth  ; this  was  bored 
for  the  reception  of  something  like  a big  funnel 
in  shape,  and  over  the  funnel  was  a water-cock. 
This  was  his  washing  apparatus  and  water-closet. 
It  was  not  savoury,  but  not  very  offensive.  He 
looked  up  at  me;  gave  himself  an  odd,  dogged 
kind  of  shake ; and  fi.xed  his  eyes  on  his  book 
again.  I came  out,  and  the  door  was  shut  and 
locked.  He  had  been  there  a month,  and 
would  have  to  wait  another  month  for  his  trial. 
‘Has  he  ever  walked  out  now,  for  instance?’ 

‘ No.’  .... 

“ ‘ In  England,  if  a man  is  under  sentence  of 
death  even,  he  has  a yard  to  walk  in  at  certain 
times.’ 

“ ‘ Possible  ? ’ 

“ Makin.g  me  this  answer  with  a coolness 
which  is  perfectly  untranslateable  and  inexpres- 
sible, and  which  is  quite  peculiar  to  the  soil,  he 
took  me  to  the  women’s  side ; telling  me,  upon 
the  way,  all  about  this  man,  who,  it  seems,  mur- 
dered his  wife,  and  will  certainly  be  hanged. 
The  women’s  doors  have  a small  square  aperture 


in  them  ; I looked  through  one,  and  saw  a pretty 
boy  about  ten  or  twelve  years  old,  who  seemed 
lonely  and  miserable  enough — as  well  he  might. 
‘What’s  he  been  doing?’  says  I.  ‘Nothing,' 
says  my  friend.  ‘ Nothing  ! ’ says  I.  ‘ No,' 
says  he.  ‘ He’s  here  for  safe  keeping.  He  saw 
his  father  kill  his  mother,  and  is  detained  to  give 
evidence  against  him — that  was  his  father  you 
saw  just  now.’  ‘ But  that’s  rather  hard  treat- 
ment for  a witness,  isn’t  it  ? ’ — ‘ Well  ! I don’t 
know.  It  an’t  a very  rowdy  life,  and  that's  a 
fact.’  So  my  friend,  who  was  an  excellent 
fellow  in  his  way,  and  very  obliging,  and  a hand- 
some young  man  to  boot,  took  me  off  to  show 
me  some  more  curiosities  ; and  I was  very  much 
obliged  to  him,  for  the  place  was  so  hot,  and  I 
so  giddy,  that  I could  scarcely  stand 

“ When  a man  is  hanged  in  New  York,  he  is 
walked  out  of  one  of  these  cells,  without  any 
condemned  sermon  or  other  religious  formali- 
ties, straight  into  the  narrow  jail  yard,  which 
may  be  about  the  width  of  Cranbourn-alley. 
There,  a gibbet  is  erected,  which  is  of  curious 
construction  ; for  the  culprit  stands  on  the  earth 
with  the  rope  about  his  neck,  which  passes 
through  a pulley  in  the  top  of  the  ‘Tree’  (see 
Neivgate  Calendar  passim),  and  is  attached  to  a 
weight  something  heavier  than  the  man.  This 
weight,  being  suddenly  let  go,  drags  the  rope 
down  with  it,  and  sends  the  criminal  flying  up 
fourteen  feet  into  the  air;  while  the  judge,  and 
jury,  and  five  and  twenty  citizens  (whose  pre- 
sence is  required  by  the  law),  stand  by,  that 
tliey  may  afterwards  certify  to  the  fact.  This 
yard  is  a very  dismal  place  ; and  when  I looked 
at  it,  I thought  the  practice  infinitely  superior  to 
ours  : much  more  solemn,  and  far  less  degrading 
and  indecent. 

“There  is  another  prison  near  New  York 
which  is  a house  of  correction.  The  convicts 
labour  in  stone  quarries  near  at  hand,  but  the 
jail  has  no  covered  yards  or  shops,  so  that  when 
the  weather  is  wet  (as  it  was  when  I was  there) 
each  man  is  shut  up  in  his  own  little  cell,  all  the 
live-long  day.  These  cells,  in  all  the  correction- 
houses  I have  seen,  are  on  one  uniform  plan — 
thus : 

r\  r\  r\  r\ 


'o  v3>  c*  5 c*  o cr 


A,  n,  c,  and  d,  are  the  walls  of  the  building  with 
windows  in  them,  high  up  in  the  wall.  The 
shaded  place  in  the  centre  represents  four  tiers 
of  cells,  one  above  the  other,  with  doors  of 


grated  iron,  and  a light  grated  gallery  to  each 
tier.  Four  tiers  front  to  n,  and  four  to  n,  so 
that  by  this  means  you  may  be  said,  in  walking 
round,  to  see  eight  tiers  in  all.  'J'he  inter- 


rillLADELPIlIA  AND  THE  SOUTH.  loi 


mediate  blank  space  you  walk  in,  looking  up  at 
these  galleries  ; so  that,  coming  in  at  the  door  e, 
and  going  either  to  the  right  or  left  till  you 
come  back  to  the  door  again,  you  see  all  the 
cells  under  one  roof  and  in  one  high  room. 


Imagine  them  in  number  400,  and  in  every  one 
a man  locked  up ; this  one  with  his  hands 
through  the  bars  of  his  grate,  this  one  in  bed  (in 
the  middle  of  the  day,  remember),  and  this  one 
flung  down  in  a heap  upon  the  ground  with  his 


HE  LOOKED  UP  AT  ME  ; GAVE  HIMSELF  AN  ODD,  DOGGED  KIND  OF  SHAKE  ; AND  FIXED  HIS  EYES  ON  HIS 

BOOK  AGAIN.” 


head  against  the  bars  like  a wild  beast.  Make 
the  rain  pour  down  in  torrents  outside.  Put  the 
everlasting  stove  in  the  midst ; hot,  suffocating, 
and  vaporous,  as  a witch’s  cauldron.  Add  a 
smell  like  that  of  a thousand  old  mildewed 
umbrellas  wet  through,  and  a thousand  dirty 
Life  of  Charles  Dickens,  8. 


clothes-bags  musty,  moist,  and  fusty,  and  you 
will  have  some  idea — a very  feeble  one,  my  dear 
friend,  on  my  word — of  this  place  yesterday 
week.  You  know  of  course  that  we  adopted 
our  improvements  in  prison-discipline  from  the 
American  pattern ; but  I am  confident  that  the 

416 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DLCRENS. 


writers  who  have  the  most  lustily  lauded  the 
American  prisons,  have  never  seen  Chesterton’s 
domain  or  Tracey’s.  There  is  no  more  com- 
parison between  those  two  prisons  of  ours,  and 
any  I have  seen  here  yet,  than  there  is  between 
the  keepers  here  and  those  two  gentlemen. 
Putting  out  of  sight  the  difficulty  we  have  in 
England  of  finding  use/u/ lahonr  for  the  prisoners 
(which  of  course  arises  from  our  being  an  older 
country,  and  having  vast  numbers  of  artizans 
unemployed),  our  system  is  more  complete, 
more  impressive,  and  more  satisfactory  in  every 
respect.  It  is  very  possible  that  I have  not 
come  to  the  best,  not  having  yet  seen  Mount 
Auburn.  I will  tell  you  when  I have.  And 
also  when  I have  come  to  those  inns,  mentioned 
— vaguely  rather — by  Miss  Martineau,  where 
they  undercharge  literary  people  for  the  love  the 
landlords  bear  them.  My  experience,  so  far, 
has  been  of  establishments  where  (perhaps  for 
the  same  reason)  they  very  monstrously  and 
violently  overcharge  a man  ^vhose  position  for- 
bids remonstrance. 

“ Washington,  Sunday, 

March  the  Thirteenth,  1842. 

“ In  allusion  to  the  last  sentence,  my  dear 
friend,  I must  tell  you  a slight  experience  I had 
in  Philadelphia.  My  rooms  had  been  ordered 
for  a week,  but,  in  consequence  of  Kate’s  illness, 
only  Mr.  Q and  the  luggage  had  gone  on.  Mr. 
Q always  lives  at  the  table  d’hote,  so  that  while 
we  were  in  New  York  our  rooms  were  empty. 
The  landlord  not  only  charged  me  half  the  full 
rent  for  the  time  during  which  the  rooms  were 
reserved  for  us  (which  was  quite  right),  but 
charged  me  also  for  hoard  for  myself  and  Kate 
and  Anne,  at  the  rate  of  nine  dollars  per  day  for 
the  same  period,  when  we  were  actually  living, 
at  the  same  expense,  in  New  York!!!  I did 
remonstrate  upon  this  head  ; but  was  coolly  told 
it  was  the  custom  (which  I have  since  been 
assured  is  a lie),  and  had  nothing  for  it  but  to 
pay  the  amount.  What  else  could  I do?  I 
was  going  away  by  the  steamboat  at  five  o’clock 
in  the  morning  j and  the  landlord  knew  perfectly 
well  that  my  disputing  an  item  of  his  bill  would 
draw  down  upon  me  the  sacred  wrath  of  the 
newspapers,  which  would  one  and  all  demand 
in  capitals  if  this  was  the  gratitude  of  the  man 
whom  America  had  received  as  she  had  never 
received  any  other  man  but  La  Fayette? 

“ I went  last  Tuesday  to  the  Eastern  Peni- 
tentiary near  Philadelphia,  which  is  the  only 
prison  in  the  States,  or  I believe,  in  the  world, 
on  the  principle  of  hopeless,  strict,  and  unre- 
laxed solitary  confinement,  during  the  whole 


term  of  the  sentence.  It  is  wonderfully  kept, 
but  a most  dreadful,  fearful  place.  The  in- 
spectors, immediately  on  my  arrival  in  Phila- 
delphia, invited  me  to  pass  the  day  in  the  jail, 
and  to  dine  with  them  when  I had  finished  my 
inspection,  that  they  might  hear  my  opinion  of 
the  system.  Accordingly  I passed  the  whole 
day  in  going  from  cell  to  cell,  and  conversing 
with  the  prisoners.  Every  facility  was  given 
me,  and  no  constraint  whatever  imposed  upon 
any  man’s  free  speech.  If  I were  to  widte  you 
a letter  of  twenty  sheets,  I could  not  tell  you 
this  one  day’s  work ; so  I will  reserve  it  until 
that  happy  time  when  we  shall  sit  round  the 
table  at  Jack  Straw’s — you,  and  I,  and  Mac — 
and  go  over  my  diary.  I never  shall  be  able  to 
dismiss  from  my  mind  the  impressions  of  that 
day.  Making  notes  of  them,  as  I have  done,  is 
an  absurdity,  for  they  are  written,  beyond  all 
power  of  erasure,  in  my  brain.  I saw  men  who 
had  been  there,  five  years,  six  years,  eleven 
years,  two  years,  two  months,  two  days ; some 
whose  term  was  nearly  over,  and  some  whose 
term  had  only  just  begun.  Women  too,  under 
the  same  variety  of  circumstances.  Every 
prisoner  who  comes  into  the  jail,  comes  at 
night;  is  put  into  a bath,  and  dressed  in  the 
prison  garb  ; and  then  a black  hood  is  drawn 
over  his  face  and  head,  and  he  is  led  to  the  cell 
from  which  he  never  stirs  again  until  his  whole 
period  of  confinement  has  expired.  I looked 
at  some  of  them  with  the  same  awe  as  I should 
have  looked  at  men  who  had  been  buried  alive, 
and  dug  up  again. 

“We  dined  in  the  jail  ; and  I told  them  after 
dinner  how  much  the  sight  had  affected  me,  and 
what  an  awful  punishment  it  was.  I dwelt 
upon  this  ; for,  although  the  inspectors  are  ex- 
tremely kind  and  benevolent  men,  I question 
whether  they  are  sufficiently  acquainted  with 
the  human  mind  to  know  what  it  is  they  are 
doing.  Indeed,  I am  sure  they  do  not  know. 

I bore  testimony,  as  every  one  who  sees  it  must, 
to  the  admirable  government  of  the  institution 
(Stanfield  is  the  keeper  : grown  a little  younger, 
that’s  all) ; and  added  that  nothing  could  justify 
such  a punishment,  but  its  working  a reforma- 
tion in  the  prisoners.  That  for  short  terms — 
say  two  years  for  the  maximum — I conceived, 
especially  after  what  they  had  told  me  ot  its 
good  effects  in  certain  cases,  it  miglit  perhaps 
be  highly  beneficial ; but  that,  carried  to  so 
great  an  extent,  I thought  it  cruel  and  unjustifi- 
able ; and  further,  that  their  sentences  for  small  j 
offences  were  very  rigorous,  not  to  say  savage.  ! 
All  this,  tliey  took  like  men  who  were  really  , 
anxious  to  have  one’s  free  opinion,  and  to  do 


rniLADKLPllIA  AND  THE  SOUTH. 


riglit.  And  we  were  very  much  jdeased  with 
each  other,  and  parted  in  the  friendliest  way. 

“ They  sent  me  back  to  Philadelphia  in  a 
carriage  they  had  sent  for  me  in  the  morning ; 
and  then  I had  to  dress  in  a hurry,  and  follow 
Kate  to  Cary’s  the  bookseller’s  where  there  was 
a party.  He  married  a sister  of  Leslie’s.  There 
are  three  Miss  Leslies  here,  very  accomplished ; 
and  one  of  them  has  copied  all  her  brother’s 
principal  pictures.  These  copies  hang  about 
the  room.  We  got  away  from  this  as  soon  as 
we  could ; and  next  morning  had  to  turn  out  at 
five.  In  the  morning  I had  received  and 
shaken  hands  with  five  hundred  people,  so  you 
may  suppose  that  I was  pretty  well  tired.  In- 
deed I am  obliged  to  be  very  careful  of  myself ; 
to  avoid  smoking  and  drinking ; to  get  to  bed 
soon ; and  to  be  particular  in  respect  of  what  I 

eat You  cannot  think  how  bilious  and 

trying  the  climate  is.  One  day  it  is  hot  sum- 
mer, without  a breath  of  air ; the  next,  twenty 
degrees  below  freezing,  with  a wind  blowing 
that  cuts  your  skin  like  steel.  These  changes 
have  occurred  here  several  times  since  last 
Wednesday  night. 

“ I have  altered  my  route,  and  don’t  mean  to 
go  to  Charleston.  The  country,  all  the  way 
from  here,  is  nothing  but  a dismal  swamp; 
there  is  a bad  night  of  sea-coasting  in  the 
journey;  the  equinoctial  gales  are  blowing 
hard ; and  Clay  (a  most  charming  fellow,  by  the 
bye),  whom  I have  consulted,  strongly  dissuades 
me.  The  weather  is  intensely  hot  there ; the 
spring  fever  is  coming  on  ; and  there  is  very 
little  to  see,  after  all.  We  therefore  go  next 
Wednesday  night  to  Richmond,  which  we  shall 
reach  on  Thursday.  There,  we  shall  stop  three 
days;  my  object  being  to  see  some  tobacco 
plantations.  Then  we  shall  go  by  James  river 
back  to  Baltimore,  which  we  have  already 
passed  through,  and  where  we  shall  stay  two 
days.  Then  we  shall  go  West  at  once,  straight 
through  the  most  gigantic  part  of  this  conti- 
nent ; across  the  Alleghany-mountains,  and 
over  a prairie. 

“Still  at  Washington,  Fifteenth  March, 

1842 It  is  impossible,  my  dear  friend, 

to  tell  you  what  we  felt,  when  Mr.  Q (who  is  a 
fearfully  sentimental  genius,  but  heartily  inter- 
ested in  all  that  concerns  us)  came  to  where  we 
were  dining  last  Sunday,  and  sent  in  a note  to 
the  effect  that  the  Caledonia  had  arrived  ! Be- 
ing really  assured  of  her  safety,  we  felt  as  if  the 
distance  between  us  and  home  were  diminished 
by  at  least  one  half.  There  was  great  joy  every- 
where here,  for  she  had  been  quite  despaired  of, 
but  oiir  joy  was  beyond  all  telling.  This  news 


103 


came  on  by  express.  Last  night  your  letters 
reached  us.  I was  dining  with  a club  (for  I 
can’t  avoid  a dinner  of  that  sort,  now  and  then), 
and  Kate  sent  me  a note  about  nine  o’clock  to 
say  they  were  here.  But  she  didn’t  open  them 
— which  I consider  heroic — until  I came  home. 
That  was  about  half-past  ten  ; and  we  read  them 
until  nearly  two  in  the  morning. 

“ I won’t  say  a word  about  your  letters  ; ex- 
cept that  Kate  and  I have  come  to  a conclusion 
which  makes  me  tremble  in  my  shoes,  for  we 
decide  that  humorous  narrative  is  your  forte, 
and  not  statesmen  of  the  commonwealth.  I 
won’t  say  a word  about  your  news;  for  how 
could  I in  that  case,  while  you  want  to  hear 
what  we  are  doing,  resist  the  temptation  of  ex- 
pending pages  on  those  darling  children 

“ I have  the  privilege  of  appearing  on  the 
floor  of  both  houses  here,  and  go  to  them  every 
day.  They  are  very  handsome  and  commodi- 
ous. There  is  a great  deal  of  bad  speaking, 
but  there  are  a great  many  very  remarkable 
men,  in  the  legislature  : such  as  John  Quincey 
Adams,  Clay,  Preston,  Calhoun,  and  others  : 
with  whom  I need  scarcely  add  I have  been 
placed  in  the  friendliest  relations.  Adams  is  a 
fine  old  fellow — seventy-six  years  old,  but  with 
most  surprising  vigour,  memory,  readiness,  and 
pluck.  Clay  is  perfectly  enchanting ; an  irre- 
sistible man.  There  are  some  very  noble  speci- 
mens, too,  out  of  the  West.  Splendid  men  to 
look  at,  hard  to  deceive,  prompt  to  act,  lions  in 
energy,  Crichtons  in  varied  accomplishments, 
Indians  in  quickness  of  eye  and  gesture,  Ame- 
ricans in  affectionate  and  generous  impulse.  It 
would  be  difficult  to  exaggerate  the  nobility  of 
some  of  these  glorious  fellows. 

“ When  Clay  retires,  as  he  does  this  month, 
Preston  will  become  the  leader  of  the  whig 
party.  He  so  solemnly  assures  me  that  the 
international  copyright  shall  and  will  be  passed, 
that  I almost  begin  to  hope ; and  I shall  be 
entitled  to  say,  if  it  be,  that  I have  brought  it 
about.  You  have  no  idea  how  universal  the 
discussion  of  its  merits  and  demerits  has  be- 
come ; or  how  eager  for  the  change  I have 
made  a portion  of  the  people. 

“ You  remember  what  Webster  was,  in  Eng- 
land. If  you  could  but  see  him  here  ! If  you 
could  only  have  seen  him  when  he  called  on  us  the 
other  day — feigning  abstraction  in  the  dreadful 
pressure  of  affairs  of  state  ; rubbing  his  forehead 
as  one  who  was  a-weary  of  the  world  ; and  ex- 
hibiting a sublime  caricature  of  Lord  Burleigh. 
He  is  the  only  thoroughly  unreal  man  I have 
seen  on  this  side  of  the  ocean.  Heaven  help 
the  President ! All  parties  are  against  him,  and 


104 


THE  LIFE  OE  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


he  appears  truly  wretched.  We  go  to  a levee  at 
his  house  to-night.  He  has  invited  me  to  dinner 
on  Friday,  but  1 am  obliged  to  decline;  for  we 
leave,  per  steam-boat,  to-morrow  night. 

“ 1 said  I wouldn’t  write  anything  more  con- 
cerning the  American  people,  for  two  months. 
Second  thoughts  are  best.  I shall  not  change, 
and  may  as  well  speak  out — to  you.  They  are 
friendly,  earnest,  hospitable,  kind,  frank,  very 
often  accomplished,  far  less  prejudiced  than  you 
would  suppose,  warm-hearted,  fervent,  and  en- 
thusiastic. They  are  chivalrous  in  their  uni- 
versal politeness  to  women,  courteous,  obliging, 
disinterested  ; and,  when  they  conceive  a perfect 
affection  for  a man  (as  I may  venture  to  say  of 
myself),  entirely  devoted  to  him.  I have  re- 
ceived thousands  of  people  of  all  ranks  and 
grades,  and  have  never  once  been  asked  an 
offensive  or  impolite  question — except  by  Eng- 
lishmen, who,  when  they  have  been  ‘located’ 
here  for  some  years,  are  worse  than  the  devil  in 
his  blackest  painting.  The  State  is  a parent  to 
its  people  ; has  a parental  care  and  watch  over 
all  poor  children,  women  labouring  of  child, 
sick  persons,  and  captives.  The  common  men 
render  you  assistance  in  the  streets,  and  would 
revolt  from  the  offer  of  a piece  of  money.  The 
desire  to  oblige  is  universal ; and  I have  never 
once  travelled  in  a public  conveyance,  without 
making  some  generous  acquaintance  whom  I 
have  been  sorry  to  part  from,  and  who  has  in 
many  cases  come  on  miles,  to  see  us  again.  But 
I don’t  like  the  country.  I would  not  live  here 
on  any  consideration.  It  goes  against  the  grain 
with  me.  It  would  with  you.  I think  it  im- 
possible, utterly  impossible,  for  any  Englishman 
to  live  here,  and  be  happy.  I have  a confidence 
that  I must  be  right,  because  I have  everything, 
God  knows,  to  lead  me  to  the  opposite  conclu- 
sion : and  yet  I cannot  resist  coming  to  this  one. 
As  to  the  causes,  they  are  too  many  to  enter 
upon  here 

“ One  of  two  petitions  for  an  international 
copyright  which  I brought  here  from  American 
authors,  with  Irving  at  their  head,  has  been  pre- 
sented to  the  house  of  representatives.  Clay  re- 
tains the  other  for  presentation  to  the  senate  after 
I have  left  Washington.  The  presented  one  has 
been  referred  to  a committee ; the  Speaker  has 
nominated  as  its  chairman  Mr.  Kennedy,  mem- 
ber for  Baltimore,  who  is  himself  an  author  and 
notoriously  favourable  to  such  a law  ; and  I am 
going  to  assist  him  in  his  report. 

“ Richmonu,  in  Virginia. 

Tliuisday  Night,  Marcli  17. 

“ Irving  was  with  me  at  Washington  yesterday. 


and  wept  heartily  at  parting.  He  is  a fine  fellow, 
when  you  know  him  well ; and  you  would  relish 
him,  my  dear  friend,  of  all  things.  We  have 
laughed  toget’r.-jr  at  some  absurdities  we  have 
encountered  in  company,  quite  in  my  vociferous 
Uevonshire-terrace  style.  The  ‘ Merrikin  ’ go- 
vernment have  treated  him,  he  says,  most  libe- 
rally ap.d  handsomely  in  every  respect.  He 
thinks  of  sailing  for  Liverpool  on  the  7 th  of 
April ; passing  a short  time  in  London  ; and 
then  going  to  Paris.  Perhaps  you  may  meet 
him.  If  you  do,  he  will  know  that  you  are  my 
dearest  friend,  and  will  open  his  whole  heart  to 
you  at  once.  His  secretary  of  legation,  Mr.  Cog- 
gleswell,  is  a man  of  very  remarkable  information, 
a great  traveller,  a good  talker,  and  a scholar. 

“ I am  going  to  sketch  you  our  trip  here  from 
Washington,  as  it  involves  nine  miles  of  a 
‘ Virginny  Road.’  That  done,  I must  be  brief, 
good  brother.”  .... 

The  reader  of  the  American  Notes  will  re- 
member the  humorous  descriptions  of  the  night 
steamer  on  the  Potomac,  and  of  the  black  driver 
over  the  Virginia-road.  Both  were  in  this  letter ; 
which,  after  three  days,  he  resumed  “ At  Wash- 
ington again,  Monday,  March  the  twenty-first. 

“We  had  intended  to  go  to  Baltimore  from 
Richmond,  by  a place  called  Norfolk  : but  one 
of  the  boats  being  under  repair,  I found  we 
should  probably  be  detained  at  this  Norfolk  two 
days.  Therefore  we  came  back  here  yesterday, 
by  the  road  we  had  travelled  before ; lay  here 
last  night ; and  go  on  to  Baltimore  this  afternoon, 
at  four  o’clock.  It  is  a journey  of  only  two 
hours  and  a half.  Richmond  is  a prettily  situ- 
ated town  ; but,  like  other  towns  in  slave  districts 
(as  the  planters  themselves  admit),  has  an  aspect 
of  decay  and  gloom  which  to  an  unaccustomed 
eye  is  most  distressing.  In  the  black  car  (for 
they  don’t  let  them  sit  with  the  whites),  on  the 
railroad  as  we  went  there,  were  a mother  and 
family  whom  the  steamer  was  conveying  away, 
to  sell ; retaining  the  man  (the  husband  ami 
father  I mean)  on  his  plantation.  The  children 
cried  the  whole  way.  Yesterday,  on  board  the 
boat,  a slave  owner  and  two  constables  were  our 
fellow-passengers.  They  were  coming  here  in 
search  of  two  negroes  who  had  run  away  on  the 
previous  day.  On  the  bridge  at  Richmond 
there  i-s  a notice  against  fast  driving  over  it,  as  it 
is  rotten  and  crazy : penalty — for  whites,  five 
dollars  ; for  slaves,  fifteen  stripes.  My  heart  is 
lightened  as  if  a great  load  had  been  taken  from 
it,  when  I think  that  we  are  turning  our  backs 
on  this  accursed  and  detested  system.  I really 
don’t  think  1 could  have  borne  it  any  longer.  I 

It  is  all  very  well  to  say  ‘be  silent  on  the  sub-  I 


PHILADELPHIA  AND  THE  SOUTH. 


ject.’  They  won’t  let  you  be  silent.  They  7ot7/ 
ask  you  what  you  think  of  it ; and  zvill  expatiate 
on  slavery  as  if  it  were  one  of  the  greatest  bless- 
ings of  mankind.  ‘ It’s  not,’  said  a hard,  bad- 
looking  fellow  to  me  the  other  day,  ‘it’s  not  the 
interest  of  a man  to  use  his  slaves  ill.  It’s 
damned  nonsense  that  you  hear  in  England.’ — I 
told  him  quietly  that  it  was  not  a man’s  interest 
to  get  drunk,  or  to  steal,  or  to  game,  or  to  in- 
dulge in  any  other  vice,  but  he  did  indulge  in  it 
for  all  that.  That  cruelty,  and  the  abuse  of  irre- 
sponsible power,  were  two  of  the  bad  passions 
of  human  nature,  with  the  gratification  of  which, 
considerations  of  interest  or  of  ruin  had  nothing 
whatever  to  do ; and  that,  while  every  candid 
man  must  admit  that  even  a slave  might  be 
happy  enough  with  a good  master,  all  human 
beings  knew  that  bad  masters,  cruel  masters,  and 
masters  who  disgraced  the  form  they  bore,  were 
matters  of  experience  and  history,  whose  exist- 
ence was  as  undisputed  as  that  of  slaves  them- 
selves. He  was  a little  taken  aback  by  this, 
and  asked  me  if  I believed  in  the  bible.  Yes,  I 
said,  but  if  any  man  could  prove  to  me  that  it 
sanctioned  slavery,  I would  place  no  further 
credence  in  it.  ‘ Well,  then,’  he  said,  ‘ by  God, 
sir,  the  niggers  must  be  kept  down,  and  the 
whites  have  put  down  the  coloured  people 
wherever  they  have  found  them.’  ‘ That’s  the 
whole  question,’  said  I.  ‘Yes,  and  by  God,’ 
says  he,  ‘ the  British  had  better  not  stand  out  on 
that  point  when  Lord  Ashburton  comes  over,  for 
I never  felt  so  warlike  as  I do  now, — and  that’s 
a fact.’  I was  obliged  to  accept  a public  supper 
in  this  Richmond,  and  I saw  plainly  enough, 
there,  that  the  hatred  which  these  Southern 
States  bear  to  us  as  a nation  has  been  fanned  up 
and  revived  again  by  this  Creole  business,  and 

can  scarcely  be  exaggerated We  were 

desperately  tired  at  Richmond,  as  we  went  to  a 
great  many  places,  and  received  a very  great 
number  of  visitors.  We  appoint  usually  two 
hours  in  every  day  for  this  latter  purpose,  and 
have  our  room  so  full  at  that  period  that  it  is 
difficult  to  move  or  breathe.  Before  we  left 
Richmond,  a gentleman  told  me,  when  I really 
was  so  exhausted  that  I could  hardly  stand, 
that  ‘ three  people  of  great  fashion  ’ were  much 
offended  by  having  been  told,  when  they  called 
last  evening,  that  I was  tired  and  not  visible, 
then,  but  would  be  ‘ at  home  ’ from  twelve  to 
two  next  day  ! Another  gentleman  (no  doubt 
of  great  fashion  also)  sent  a letter  to  me  two 
hours  after  I had  gone  to  bed  preparatory  to 
rising  at  four  next  morning,  with  instructions  to 
the  slave  who  brought  it  to  knock  me  up  and 
wait  for  an  answer  ! 


105 


“ I am  going  to  break  my  resolution  of  accept- 
ing no  more  public  entertainments,  in  favour  of 
the  originators  of  the  printed  document  overleaf. 
They  live  upon  the  confines  of  the  Indian  terri- 
tory, some  two  thousand  miles  or  more  west  of 
New  York  ! Think  of  my  dining  there  ! And 
yet,  please  God,  the  festival  will  come  off — I 
should  say  about  the  12th  or  15th  of  next 
month.”  .... 

The  printed  document  was  a series  of  resolu- 
tions, moved  at  a public  meeting  attended  by  all 
the  principal  citizens,  judges,  professors,  and 
doctors  of  St.  Louis,  urgently  inviting,  to  that 
city  of  the  Far  West,  the  distinguished  writer, 
then  the  guest  of  America,  eulogising  his  genius, 
and  tendering  to  him  their  warmest  hospitalities, 
tie  was  at  Baltimore  when  he  closed  his  letter. 

“ Baltimore,  Tuesday,  March  22nd. 

“ I have  a great  diffidence  in  running  counter 
to  any  impression  formed  by  a man  of  Maclise’s 
genius,  on  a subject  he  has  fully  considered.” 
(^Referring  apparently  to  some  remark  by  myself 
on  the  picture  of  the  Play-scene  in  Hatnld 
exhibited  this  year.)  “ But  I quite  agree  with 
you  about  the  King  in  Hamlet.  Talking  of 
Hamlet,  I constantly  carry  in  my  great-coat 
pocket  the  Shakespeare  you  bought  for  me  in 
Liverpool.  What  an  unspeakable  source  of 
delight  that  book  is  to  me  ! 

“ Your  Ontario  letter,  I found  here  to-night : 
sent  on  by  the  vigilant  and  faithful  Golden,  who 
makes  everything  having  reference  to  us,  or  our 
affairs,  a labour  of  the  heartiest  love.  We  de- 
voured its  contents,  greedily.  Good  Heaven, 
my  dear  fellow,  how  I miss  you  ! and  how  I 
count  the  time  ’twixt  this  and  coming  home 
again.  Shall  I ever  forget  the  day  of  our  part- 
ing at  Liverpool ! when  even became  jolly 

and  radiant  in  his  sympathy  with  our  separation  ! 
Never,  never  shall  I forget  that  time.  Ah  ! how 
seriously  I thought  then,  and  how  seriously  I 
have  thought  many,  many  times  since,  of  the 
terrible  folly  of  ever  quarrelling  with  a true 
friend,  on  good  for  nothing  trifles  ! Every  little 
hasty  word  that  has  ever  passed  between  us, 
rose  up  before  me  like  a reproachful  ghost.  At 
this  great  distance,  I seem  to  look  back  upon 
any  miserable  small  interruption  of  our  affec- 
tionate intercourse,  though  only  for  the  instant  it 
has  never  outlived,  with  a sort  of  pity  for  myse  1 
as  if  I were  another  creature. 

“ I have  bought  another  accordion.  The 
steward  lent  me  one,  on  the  passage  out,  and  I 
regaled  the  ladies’  cabin  with  my  performances. 
You  can’t  think  with  what  feeling  I play  Home 
Sweet  Home  every  night,  or  how  pleasantly  sad 


io6 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


it  makes  us And  so  God  bless  you. 

....  I leave  space  for  a short  postscript  before 
sealing  this,  but  it  will  probably  contain  nothing. 
The  dear,  dear  children  ! what  a happiness  it  is 
to  know  that  they  are  in  such  hands. 

“ P.S.  Twenty-third  March,  1842.  Nothing 
new.  And  all  well.  I have  not  heard  that  the 
Columbia  is  in,  but  she  is  hourly  expected. 
Washington  Irving  has  come  on  for  another 
leave-taking,  and  dines  with  me  to-day.  We 
start  for  the  West,  at  half  after  eight  to-morrow 
morning.  I send  you  a newspaper,  the  most 
respectable  in  the  States,  with  a very  just  copy- 
right article.” 


V. 


CANAL  AND  STEAM  BOAT  JOURNEYS. 
1842. 

IT  w'ould  not  be  possible  that  a more 
vivid  or  exact  impression,  than  that 
which  is  derivable  from  these  letters, 
could  be  given  of  either  the  genius 
or  the  character  of  the  writer.  The 
whole  man  is  here  in  the  supreme 
hour  of  his  life,  and  in  all  the  enjoy- 
ment of  its  highest  sensations.  Inexpres- 
sibly sad  to  me  has  been  the  task  of  going 
over  them,  but  the  surprise  has  equalled  the 
sadness.  I had  forgotten  what  was  in  them. 
That  they  contained,  in  their  first  vividness,  all 
the  most  prominent  descriptions  of  his  published 
book,  I knew.  But  the  reproduction  of  any 
part  of  these  was  not  permissible  here ; and  be- 
lieving that  the  substance  of  them  had  been  thus 
almost  wholly  embodied  in  the  American  Notes, 
when  they  were  lent  to  assist  in  its  composition, 
I turned  to  them  with  very  small  expectation  of 
finding  anything  available  for  present  use.  Yet 
the  difficulty  has  been,  not  to  find  but  to  reject ; 
and  the  rejection  when  most  unavoidable  has 
not  been  most  easy.  Even  where  the  subjects 
recur  that  are  in  the  printed  volume,  there  is  a 
freshness  of  first  impressions  in  the  letters  that 
renders  it  no  small  trial  to  act  strictly  on  the 
rule  adhered  to  in  these  extracts  from  them.  In 
the  Notes  there  is  of  course  very  much,  masterly 
in  observation  and  description,  of  which  there 
is  elsewhere  no  trace  j but  the  passages  ampli- 
fied from  the  letters  have  not  been  improved, 
and  the  manly  force  and  directness  of  some  of 
their  views  and  reflections,  conveyed  by  touches 
of  a picturesque  completeness  that  no  elabora- 
tion could  give,  have  here  and  there  not  been 


strengthened  by  rhetorical  additions  in  the 
printed  w'ork.  There  is  also  a charm  in  the 
letters  which  the  plan  adopted  in  the  book 
necessarily  excluded  from  it.  It  will  always  of 
course  have  value  as  a deliberate  expression  of 
the  results  gathered  from  the  American  experi- 
ences, but  the  personal  narrative  of  this  famous 
visit  to  America  is  in  the  letters  alone.  In  what 
way  his  experiences  arose,  the  desire  at  the 
outset  to  see  nothing  that  was  not  favourable, 
the  slowness  with  which  adverse  impressions 
were  formed,  and  the  eager  recognition  of  every 
better  quality  that  arose  and  remained  above 
the  fault-finding,  are  discoverable  only  in  the 
letters. 

Already  it  is  manifest  from  them  that  the 
before-named  disappointments,  as  w'ell  of  the 
guest  in  his  entertainers  as  of  the  entertainers  in 
their  guest,  had  their  beginning  in  the  copyright 
differences ; but  it  is  not  less  plain  that  the 
social  dissatisfactions  on  his  side  were  of  even 
earlier  date,  and  had  certainly  nothing  to  do 
w'ith  the  country  itself.  It  was  objected  to  him, 
I well  remember,  that  in  making  such  unfavour- 
able remarks  as  his  published  book  did  on  many 
points,  he  was  assailing  the  democratic  institu- 
tions that  had  formed  the  character  of  the 
nation  : but  the  answer  is  obvious,  that,  demo- 
cratic institutions  being  universal  in  America, 
they  were  as  fairly  entitled  to  share  in  the  good 
as  in  the  bad  ; and  in  wJiat  he  praised,  of  which 
there  is  here  abundant  testimony,  he  must  be 
held  to  have  exalted  those  institutions  as  much, 
as  he  could  be  held  to  depreciate  them  in  what 
he  blamed.  He  never  sets  himself  up  in  judg- 
ment on  the  entire  people.  As  we  sec,  from 
the  way  in  which  the  letters  show  us  that  the 
opinions  he  afterwards  published  were  formed, 
he  does  not  draw  conclusions  upon  only  hall- 
finished  observation;  and  he  refrains  throughout 
from  the  example  too  strongly  set  him,  even  in 
the  terms  of  his  welcome  by  the  writers  of 
America,  of  flinging  one  nation  in  the  other’s 
face.  He  leaves  each  upon  its  own  ground. 
His  object  in  his  publication,  as  in  the  first  im- 
pressions recorded  here,  is  to  exhibit  social 
influences  at  work  as  he  saw  them  himself;  and 
it  would  surely  have  been  of  all  bad  compli- 
ments the  worst,  when  resolving,  in  the  tone 
and  with  the  purpose  of  a friend,  to  make  public 
what  he  had  observed  in  America,  if  he  had  sup- 
posed that  such  a country  would  take  truth  amiss. 

There  is  however  one  thing  to  be  especially 
remembered,  as  well  in  reading  the  letters  as  in 
judging  of  the  book  which  was  founded  on  them. 
It  is  a point  to  which  I believe  Mr.  Emerson 
directed  the  attention  of  his  country  men.  Every- 


CAiVAL  AiYD  STEAM  BO A2' JOURNEYS. 


107 


thing  of  an  objectionable  kind,  whether  the  author 
would  have  it  so  or  not,  stands  out  more  promi- 
nently and  distinctly  than  matter  of  the  opposite 
description.  The  social  sin  is  a more  tangible 
thing  than  the  social  virtue.  Pertinaciously  to  insist 
upon  the  charities  and  graces  of  life,  is  to  outrage 
their  quiet  and  unobtrusive  character ; but  we 
incur  the  danger  of  extending  the  vulgarities  and 
indecencies,  if  we  countenance  by  omitting  to 
expose  them.  And  if  this  is  only  kept  in  view 
in  reading  what  is  here  given,  the  proportion  of 
censure  will  be  found  not  to  overbalance  un- 
fairly the  admiration  and  praise. 

Apart  from  such  considerations,  it  is  to  be 
also  said,  the  letters  from  which  I am  now  print- 
ing exactly  as  they  were  written,  have  claims,  as 
mere  literature,  of  an  unusual  kind.  Unrivalled 
quickness  of  observation,  the  rare  faculty  of  seiz- 
ing out  of  a multitude  of  things  the  thing  that  is 
essential,  the  irresistible  play  of  humour,  such 
pathos  as  only  humourists  of  this  high  order  pos- 
sess, and  the  unwearied  unforced  vivacity  of  ever 
fresh,  buoyant,  bounding  animal  spirits,  never 
found  more  natural,  variously  easy,  or  picturesque 
expression.  Written  amid  such  distraction,  fatigue, 
and  weariness  as  they  describe,  amid  the  jarring 
noises  of  hotels  and  streets,  aboard  steamers,  on 
canal  boats,  and  in  log  huts,  there  is  not  an 
erasure  in  them.  Not  external  objects  only,  but 
feelings,  reflections,  and  thoughts,  are  photo- 
graphed into  visible  forms  with  the  same  un- 
exampled ease.  They  borrow  no  help  from  the 
matters  of  which  they  treat.  They  would  have 
given  to  the  subjects  described,  old  acquaint- 
ance and  engrossing  interest  if  they  had  been 
about  a people  in  the  moon.  Of  the  personal 
character  at  the  same  time  self-pourtrayed,  others, 
whose  emotions  it  less  vividly  awakens,  will 
judge  more  calmly  and  clearly  than  myself.  Yet 
to  myself  only  can  it  be  known  how  small  were 
the  services  of  friendship  that  sufficed  to  rouse 
all  the  sensibilities  of  this  beautiful  and  noble 
nature.  Throughout  our  life-long  intercourse  it 
was  the  same.  His  keenness  of  discrimination 
failed  him  never  excepting  here,  when  it  was 
lost  in  the  limitless  extent  of  his  appreciation  of 
all  kindly  things;  and  never  did  he  receive  what 
was  meant  for  a benefit  that  he  was  not  eager  to 
return  it  a hundredfold.  No  man  more  truly 
generous  ever  lived. 

His  next  letter  was  begun  from  ‘On  board 
the  canal  boat.  Going  to  Pittsburgh.  Monday, 
March  twenty-eighth,  1842  and  the  difficulties 
of  rejection,  to  which  reference  has  just  been 
made,  have  been  nowhere  felt  by  me  so  much. 
Several  of  the  descriptive  masterpieces  of  the 
book  are  in  it,  with  such  touches  of  original 


freshness  as  might  fairly  have  justified  a repro- 
duction of  them  in  their  first  form.  Among 
these  are  the  Harrisburgh  coach  on  its  way 
through  the  Susquehanah  valley;  the  railroad 
across  the  mountain  ; the  brown-forester  of  the 
Mississippi,  the  interrogative  man  in  pepper-and- 
salt,  and  the  affecting  scene  of  the  emigrants 
put  ashore  as  the  steamer  passes  up  the 
Ohio.  But  all  that  I may  here  give,  bearing 
any  resemblance  to  what  is  given  in  the  Notes', 
are,  the  opening  sketch  of  the  small  creature  on 
the  top  of  the  queer  stage  coach,  to  which  the 
printed  version  fails  to  do  adequate  justice  ; and 
an  experience  to  which  the  interest  belongs  of 
having  suggested  the  settlement  of  Eden  in 

Martin  Chuzzlewit “ We  left  Baltimore 

last  Thursday  the  twenty-fourth  at  half-past  eight 
in  the  morning,  by  railroad ; and  got  to  a place 
called  York,  about  twelve.  There  we  dined, 
and  took  a stage-coach  for  Harrisburgh ; twenty- 
five  miles  further.  This  stage-coach  was  like 
nothing  so  much  as  the  body  of  one  of  the 
swings  you  see  at  a fair  set  upon  four  wheels 
and  roofed  and  covered  at  the  sides  with  painted 
canvas.  There  were  twelve  inside!  I,  thank 
my  stars,  was  on  the  box.  The  luggage  was 
on  the  roof ; among  it,  a good-sized  dining-table, 
and  a big  rocking-chair.  We  also  took  up  an 
intoxicated  gentleman,  who  sat  for  ten  miles 
between  me  and  the  coachman,  and  another  in- 
toxicated gentleman  who  got  up  behind,  but  in 
the  course  of  a mile  or  two  fell  off  without  hurt- 
ing himself,  and  was  seen  in  the  distant  per- 
spective reeling  back  to  the  grog-shop  where  we 
had  found  him.  There  were  four  horses  to  this 
land-ark,  of  course  ; but  we  did  not  perform  the 

journeyuntil  half-past  six  o’clock  that  night 

The  first  half  of  the  journey  was  tame  enough, 
but  the  second  lay  through  the  valley  of  the 
Susquehanah  (I  think  I spell  it  right,  but  I 
haven’t  that  American  Geography  at  hand)  which 

is  very  beautiful 

“ I think  I formerly  made  a casual  remark  to 
you  touching  the  precocity  of  the  youth  of  this 
country.  When  we  changed  horses  on  this 
journey  I got  down  to  stretch  my  legs,  refresh 
myself  with  a glass  of  whiskey  and  water,  and 
shake  the  wet  off  my  great  coat — for  it  was  rain- 
ing very  heavil;^,  and  continued  to  do  so,  all 
night.  Mounting  on  my  seat  again,  I observed 
something  lying  on  the  roof  of  the  coach,  which 
I took  to  be  a rather  large  fiddle  in  a brown 
bag.  In  the  course  of  ten  miles  or  so,  however, 
I discovered  that  it  had  a pair  of  dirty  shoes  at 
one  end,  and  a glazed  cap  at  the  other  ; and 
further  observation  demonstrated  it  to  be  a small 
boy,  in  a snuff-coloured  coat,  with  his  arms  quite 


io8  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


pinioned  to  his  sides  by  deep  forcing  into  his 
pockets.  He  was,  I presume,  a relative  or  friend 
of  the  coachman’s,  as  he  lay  a-top  of  the  luggage, 
with  his  face  towards  the  rain  ; and,  except  when 
a change  of  position  brought  his  shoes  in  con- 
tact with  my  hat,  he  appeared  to  be  asleep.  Sir, 
when  we  stopped  to  water  the  horses,  about  two 
miles  from  Harrisburgh,'  this  thing  slowly  up- 
reared  itself  to  the  height  of  three  foot  eight,  and 
fixing  its  eyes  on  me  with  a mingled  expression 
of  complacency,  patronage,  national  independ- 
ence, and  sympathy  for  all  outer  barbarians  and 
foreigners,  said,  in  shrill  piping  accents,  ‘ Well 
now,  stranger,  I guess  you  find  this,  a-most  like 
an  English  a’ternoon, — hey?’  It  is  unnecessary 
to  add  that  I thirsted  for  his  blood 

“We  had  all  next  morning  in  Harrisburgh,  as 
the  canal-boat  was  not  to  start  until  three  o’clock 
in  the  afternoon.  The  officials  called  upon  me 
before  I had  finished  breakfast  ; and  as  the  town 
is  the  seat  of  the  Pennsylvanian  legislature,  I 
went  up  to  the  capitol.  I was  very  much  in- 
terested in  looking  over  a number  of  treaties 
made  with  the  poor  Indians,  their  signatures 
being  rough  drawings  of  the  creatures  or  weapons 
they  are  called  after ; and  the  extraordinary 
drawing  of  these  emblems,  showing  the  queer, 
unused,  shaky  manner  in  which  each  man  has 
held  the  pen,  struck  me  very  much. 

“ You  know  my  small  respect  for  our  house 
of  commons.  These  local  legislatures  are  too 
insufferably  apish  of  mighty  legislation,  to  be 
seen  without  bile  ; for  which  reason,  and  be- 
cause a great  crowd  of  senators  and  ladies  had 
assembled  in  both  houses  to  behold  the  inimi- 
table, and  had  already  begun  to  pour  in  upon 
him  even  in  the  secretary’s  private  room,  I went 
back  to  the  hotel,  with  all  speed.  The  members 
of  both  branches  of  the  legislature  followed  me 
there,  however,  so  we  had  to  hold  the  usual 
levee  before  our  half-past  one  o’clock  dinner. 
We  received  a great  number  of  them.  Pretty 
nearly  every  man  spat  upon  the  carpet,  as  usual ; 
and  one  blew  his  nose — with  his  fingers — also 
on  the  carpet,  which  was  a very  neat  one,  the 
room  given  up  to  us  being  the  private  par- 
lour of  the  landlord’s  wife.  This  has  become 
so  common  since,  however,  that  it  scarcely  seems 
worth  mentioning.  Please  to  observe  that  the 
gentleman  in  question  was  a member  of  the 
senate,  which  answers  (as  they  very  often  tell 
me)  to  our  house  of  lords. 

“ The  innkeeper  was  the  most  attentive,  civil, 
and  obliging  person  I ever  saw  in  my  life.  On 
being  asked  lor  his  bill,  he  said  there  was  no 
bill : the  honor  and  pleasure,  &c.  being  more 
than  sufficient.  I did  not  permit  this,  of  course; 


and  begged  Mr.  Q to  explain  to  him,  that,  traveh 
ling  four  strong,  I could  not  hear  of  it  on  any 
account. 

“ And  now  I come  to  the  Canal  Boat.  Bless 
your  heart  and  soul,  my  dear  fellow,— if  yon 
could  only  see  us  on  board  the  canal  boat ! 
Let  me  think,  for  a moment,  at  what  time  of  the 
day  or  night  I should  best  like  you  to  see  us.  In 
the  morning  ? Between  five  and  six  in  the  morn- 
ing, shall  I say  ? Well ! you  would  like  to  see 
me,  standing  on  the  deck,  fishing  the  dirty  water 
out  of  the  canal  with  a tin  ladle  chained  to  the 
boat  by  a long  chain ; pouring  the  same  into  a 
tin-basin  (also  chained  up  in  like  manner) ; and 
scrubbing  my  face  with  the  jack-towel.  At  night, 
shall  I say  ? I don’t  know  that  you  would  like 
to  look  into  the  cabin  at  night,  only  to  see  me 
lying  on  a temporary  shelf  exactly  the  width  of 
this  sheet  of  paper  when  it’s  open  (/  measured  it 
this  morning,  with  one  man  above  me,  and  an- 
other below ; and,  in  all,  eight  and  twenty  in  a 
low  cabin,  which  you  can’t  stand  upright  in  with 
your  hat  on.  I don’t  think  you  would  like  to 
look  in  at  breakfast  time  either,  for  then  these 
shelves  have  only  just  been  taken  down  and  put 
away,  and  the  atmosphere  of  the  place  is,  as  you 
may  suppose,  by  no  means  fresh ; though  there 
are  upon  the  table  tea  and  coftee,  and  bread  and 
butter,  and  salmon,  and  shad,  and  liver,  and 
steak,  and  potatoes,  and  pickles,  and  ham,  and 
pudding,  and  sausages;  and  three  and  thirty 
people  sitting  round  it,  eating  and  drinking;  and 
savoury  bottles  of  gin,  and  whiskey,  and  brandy, 
and  rum,  in  the  bar  hard  by ; and  seven  and  twenty 
out  of  the  eight  and  twenty  men,  in  foul  linen, 
with  yellow  streams  from  half-chewed  tobacco 
trickling  down  their  chins.  Perhaps  the  best 
time  for  you  to  take  a peep  would  be  the  pre- 
sent : eleven  o’clock  in  the  forenoon  : when  the 
barber  is  at  his  shaving,  and  the  gentlemen  are 
lounging  about  the  stove  waiting  for  their  turns, 
and  not  more  than  seventeen  are  spitting  in  con- 
cert, and  two  or  three  are  walking  overhead 
(lying  down  on  the  luggage  every  time  the  man 
at  the  helm  calls  ‘ Bridge  ' ’),  and  I am  writing 
this  in  the  ladies’  cabin,  which  is  a part  of  the 
gentlemen’s,  and  only  screened  off  by  a red 
curtain.  Indeed  it  exactly  resembles  the  dwarf’s 
private  apartment  in  a caravan  at  a fair  ; and  the 
gentlemen,  generally,  rci)resent  the  spectators  at 
a penny-a-hcad.  The  place  is  just  as  clean  and 
just  as  large  as  that  caravan  you  and  I were  in 
at  Greenwich-fair  last  past.  Outside,  it  is  e.x- 
actly  like  any  canal-boat  you  have  seen  near  the 
Regent’s-park,  or  elsewhere. 

“ You  never  can  conceive  what  the  hawking 
and  spitting  is,  the  whole  night  through.  Last. 


CANAL  AND  STEAM  BOAT  JOURNEYS. 


niglit  was  the  worst.  Upon  my  honor  and  word 
1 was  obliged,  this  morning,  to  lay  my  fur-coat 
on  the  deck,  and  wipe  the  half  dried  flakes  of 
spittle  from  it  with  my  handkerchief:  and  the 
only  surprise  seemed  to  be,  that  I should  con- 
sider it  necessary  to  do  so.  When  I turned  in 
last  night,  I put  it  on  a stool  beside  me,  and 
there  it  lay,  under  a cross  fire  from  five  men — 
three  opposite  ; one  above  ; and  one  below.  I 
make  no  complaints,  and  show  no  disgust.  I 
am  looked  upon  as  highly  facetious  at  night,  for 
I crack  jokes  with  everybody  near  me  until  we 
fall  asleep.  I am  considered  very  hardy  in  the 
morning,  for  I run  up,  bare-necked,  and  plunge 
my  head  into  the  half-frozen  water,  by  half-past 
five  o’clock.  I am  respected  for  my  activity, 
inasmuch  as  I jump  from  the  boat  to  the  towing- 
path,  and  walk  five  or  six  miles  before  breakfast; 
keeping  up  with  the  horses  all  the  time.  In  a 
word,  they  are  quite  astonished  to  find  a seden- 
tary Englishman  roughing  it  so  well,  and  taking 
so  much  exercise ; and  question  me  very  much 
on  that  head.  The  greater  part  of  the  men  will 
sit  and  shiver  round  the  stove  all  day,  rather 
than  put  one  foot  before  the  other.  As  to  hav- 
ing a window  open,  that’s  not  to  be  thought  of. 

“We  expect  to  reach  Pittsburgh  to-night, 
between  eight  and  nine  o’clock ; and  there  we 
ardently  hope  to  find  your  March  letters  await- 
ing us.  We  have  had,  with  the  exception  of 
Friday  afternoon,  exquisite  weather,  but  cold. 
Clear  starlight  and  moonlight  nights.  The 
canal  has  run,  for  the  most  part,  by  the  side  of 
the  Susquehanah  and  Iwanata  rivers;  and  has 
been  carried  through  tremendous  obstacles. 
Yesterday,  we  crossed  the  mountain.  This  is 
done  by  railroad.  ....  You  dine  at  an  inn 
upon  the  mountain ; and,  including  the  half 
hour  allowed  for  the  meal,  are  rather  more  than 
five  hours  performing  this  strange  part  of  the 
journey.  The  people  north  and  ‘ down  east  ’ 
have  terrible  legends  of  its  danger;  but  they 
appear  to  be  exceedingly  careful,  and  don’t  go 
to  work  at  all  wildly.  There  are  some  queer 
precipices  close  to  the  rails,  certainly;  but  every 
precaution  is  taken,  I am  inclined  to  think,  that 
such  difficulties,  and  such  a vast  work,  will 
admit  of. 

“The  scenery,  before  you  reach  the  moun- 
tains, and  when  you  are  on  them,  and  after  you 
have  left  them,  is  very  fine  and  grand ; and  the 
canal  winds  its  way  through  some  deep,  sullen 
gorges,  which,  seen  by  moonlight,  are  very  im- 
pressive : though  immeasurably  inferior  to  Glen- 
coe, to  whose  terrors  I have  not  seen  the  smallest 
approach.  AVe  have  passed,  both  in  the  moun- 
tains and  elsewhere,  a great  number  of  new 


I I 

109  I i 

settlements,  and  detached  log-houses.  Their 
utterly  forlorn  and  miserable  appearance  baffles 
all  description.  I have  not  seen  six  cabins  out 
of  six  hundred,  where  the  windows  have  been 
whole.  Old  hats,  old  clothes,  old  boards,  old 
fragments  of  blanket  and  paper,  are  stuffed  into 
the  broken  glass ; and  their  air  is  misery  and 
desolation.  It  pains  the  eye  to  see  the  stumps 
of  great  trees  thickly  strewed  in  every  field  of 
wheat ; and  never  to  lose  the  eternal  swamp 
and  dull  morass,  with  hundreds  of  rotten  trunks, 
of  elm  and  pine  and  sycamore  and  logwood, 
steeped  in  its  unwholesome  water ; where  the  • 
frogs  so  croak  at  night  that  after  dark  there  is  an 
incessant  sound  as  if  millions  of  phantom  teams,, 
with  bells,  were  travelling  through  the  upper 
air,  at  an  enormous  distance  off.  It  is  quite  an 
oppressive  circumstance,  too,  to  come  upon  great 
tracks,  where  settlers  have  been  burning  down 
the  trees ; and  where  their  wounded  bodies  lie 
about,  like  those  of  murdered  creatures ; while 
here  and  there  some  charred  and  blackened 
giant  rears  two  bare  arms  aloft,  and  seems  tO' 
curse  his  enemies.  The  prettiest  sight  I have 
seen  was  yesterday,  when  we — on  the  heights  of 
the  mountain,  and  in  a keen  wind — looked  down 
into  a valley  full  of  light  and  softness  : catching 
glimpses  of  scattered  cabins;  children  running 
to  the  doors ; dogs  bursting  out  to  bark ; pigs 
scampering  home,  like  so  many  prodigal  sons ; 
families  sitting  out  in  their  gardens ; cows  gazing 
upward,  with  a stupid  indifference ; men  in  their 
shirt-sleeves  looking  on  at  their  unfinished  houses, 
and  planning  work  for  to-morrow ; — and  the 
train  riding  on,  high  above  them,  like  a storm. 

But  I know  this  is  beautiful — very — very  beau- 
tiful ! 

“.  . . . I wonder  whether  you  and  Mac  mean 
to  go  to  Greenwich-fair  ! Perhaps  you  dine  at 
the  Crown-and-sceptre  to-day,  for  it’s  Easter- 
Monday- — who  knows  ! I wish  you  drank  punch, 
dear  Forster.  It’s  a shabby  thing,  not  to  be  able 
to  picture  you  with  that  cool  green  glass 

“ I told  you  of  the  many  uses  of  the  word 
‘ fix.’  I ask  Mr.  Q on  board  a steam-boat  if  break- 
fast be  nearly  ready,  and  he  tells  me  yes  he 
should  think  so,  for  when  he  was  last  below  the 
steward  was  ‘ fixing  the  tables  ’ — in  other  words, 
laying  the  cloth.  AA^hen  we  have  been  writing, 
and  I beg  him  (do  you  remember  anything  of  my 
love  of  order  at  this  distance  of  time  ?)  to  collect 
our  papers,  he  answers  that  he’ll  ‘ fix  ’em  pre- 
sently.’ So  when  a man’s  dressing  he’s  ‘fixing’ 
himself,  and  when  you  put  yourself  under  a 
doctor  he  ‘ fixes  ’ you  in  no  time.  T’other 
night,  before  we  came  on  board  here,  when  I 
had  ordered  a bottle  of  mulled  claret  and  waited 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


some  time  for  it,  it  was  put  on  table  with  an 
apology  from  the  landlord  (a  lieutenant-colonel) 
that  ‘he  fear’d  it  wasn’t  fixed  properly.’  And 
here,  on  Saturday  morning,  a Western  man, 
handing  the  potatoes  to  Mr.  Q at  breakfast, 
enquired  if  he  wouldn’t  take  some  of  ‘ these 
fixings  ’ with  his  meat.  I remained  as  grave  as 
a judge.  I catch  them  looking  at  me  some- 
times, and  feel  that  they  think  I don’t  take  any 
notice.  Politics  are  very  high  here  ; dreadfully 
strong ; handbills,  denunciations,  invectives, 
threats,  and  quarrels.  The  question  is,  who 
shall  be  the  next  President.  The  election 
comes  off  in  three  years  and  a half  from  this 
time.” 

He  resumed  his  letter,  “ On  board  the  steam 
boat  from  Pittsburgh  to  Cincinnati,  April  the 
first,  1842.  A very  tremulous  steam  boat, 
which  makes  my  hand  shake.  This  morning, 
my  dear  friend,  this  very  morning,  which,  pass- 
ing by  without  bringing  news  from  England, 
would  have  seen  us  on  our  way  to  St.  Louis 
(via  Cincinnati  and  Louisville)  with  sad  hearts 
and  dejected  countenances,  and  the  prospect  of 
remaining  for  at  least  three  weeks  longer  without 
any  intelligence  of  those  so  inexpressibly  dear 
to  us — this  very  morning,  bright  and  lucky 
morning  that  it  was,  a great  packet  was  brought 
to  our  bed-room  door,  from  HOME.  How  I 
have  read  and  re-read  your  affectionate,  hearty, 
interesting,  funny,  serious,  delightlul,  and  tho- 
roughly Lorsterian  Columbia  letter,  I will  not 
attempt  to  tell  you ; or  how  glad  1 am  that  you 
liked  my  first ; or  how  afraid  I am  that  my 
second  was  not  written  in  such  good  spirits  as  it 
should  have  been  ; or  how  glad  I am  again  to 
think  that  my  third  was ; or  how  I hope  you 
will  find  some  amusement  from  my  fourth ; this 
present  missive.  All  this,  and  more  affectionate 
and  earnest  words  than  the  post  office  would 
convey  at  any  price,  though  they  have  no  sharp 
edges  to  hurt  the  stamping-clerk — you  will  un- 
derstand, I know,  without  expression  or  attempt 
at  expression.  So  having  got  over  the  first 
agitation  of  so  much  pleasure ; and  having 
walked  the  deck ; and  being  now  in  the  cabin, 
where  one  party  are  playing  at  chess,  and 
another  party  are  asleep,  and  another  are  talk- 
ing round  the  stove,  and  all  are  spitting ; and  a 
persevering  bore  of  a horrible  New  Englander 
w'ith  a droning  voice  like  a gigantic  bee  will 
sit  down  beside  me,  though  I am  writing,  and 
talk  incessantly,  in  my  very  ear,  to  Kate ; — here 
goes  again. 

“ Let  me  sec.  I should  tell  you,  first,  that 
we  got  to  Piltsburgli  between  eight  and  nine 
o’clock  of  the  evening  of  the  day  on  which  I 


left  off  at  the  top  of  this  sheet ; and  were  there 
received  by  a little  man  (a  very  little  man) 
whom  I knew  years  ago  in  London.  He  re- 
joiceth  in  the  name  of  D G;  and,  when  I knew 
him,  was  in  partnership  with  his  father  on  the 
stock-exchange,  and  lived  handsomely  at  Dal- 
ston.  They  failed  in  business  soon  afterwards, 
and  then  this  little  man  began  to  turn  to  account 
what  had  previously  been  his  amusement  and 
accomplishment  by  painting  little  subjects  for 
the  fancy  shops.  So  I lost  sight  of  him,  nearly 
ten  years  ago;  and  here  he  turned  up  t’other 
day,  as  a portrait  painter  in  Pittsburgh ! He 
had  previously  written  me  a letter  which  moved 
me  a good  deal,  by  a kind  of  quiet  independence 
and  contentment  it  breathed,  and  still  a painful 
sense  of  being  alone,  so  very  far  from  home.  I 
received  it  in  Philadelphia,  and  answered  it. 
He  dined  with  us  every  day  of  our  stay  in  Pitts- 
burgh (they  were  only  three),  and  was  truly 
gratified  and  delighted  to  find  me  unchanged — • 
more  so  than  I can  tell  you.  1 am  very  glad 
to-night  to  think  how  much  happiness  we  have 
fortunately  been  able  to  give  him. 

“ Pittsburgh  is  like  Birmingham — at  least  its 
townsfolks  say  so ; and  I didn’t  contradict  them. 
It  is,  in  one  respect.  There  is  a great  deal  of  smoke 
m it.  I quite  offended  a man  at  our  yesterday’s 
levee,  who  supposed  I was  ‘ now  quite  at  home,’ 
by  telling  him  that  the  notion  of  London  being 
so  dark  a place  was  a popular  mistake.  We  had 
very  queer  customers  at  our  receptions,  I do 
assure  you.  Not  least  among  them,  a gentleman 
with  his  inexpressibles  imperfectly  buttoned  and 
his  waistband  resting  on  his  thighs,  who  stood 
behind  the  half-opened  door,  and  could  by  no 
temptation  or  inducement  be  prevailed  upon  to 
come  out.  There  was  also  another  gentleman, 
with  one  eye  and  one  fixed  gooseberry,  who 
stood  in  a corner  motionless  like  an  eight-day 
clock,  and  glared  upon  me,  as  I courteously 
received  the  Pittsburgians.  There  were  also 
two  red-headed  brothers — boys — young  dragons 
rather — who  hovered  about  Kate,  and  wouldn’t 
go.  A great  crowd  they  were,  for  three  dayS ; 
and  a very  queer  one.” 

“Still  in  the  same  Boat.  ' 

April  the  Second,  1842. 

“ Many,  many,  happy  returns  of  the  day.  It  s 
only  eight  o’clock  in  the  morning  now,  but  we 
mean  to  drink  your  healtli  after  dinner,  in  a 
bumper ; and  scores  of  Richmond  dinners  to 
us  ! We  liave  some  wine  (a  present  sent  on 
board  by  our  Pittsbtirgli  lamllord)  in  otir  own 
cabin ; and  we  shall  tap  it  to  good  purpose,  1 
assure  you ; wishing  you  all  manner  and  kinds 


CANAL  AND  Sl'EAM  BOA  T JO  URNE  VS.  n i 


of  happiness,  and  a long  life  to  ourselves  that  we 
may  be  ]xartakers  of  it.  We  have  wondered  a 
hundred  times  already,  whether  you  and  Mac 
will  dine  anywhere  together,  in  honour  of  the 
day.  I say  yes,  but  Kate  says  no.  She  predicts 
that  you’ll  ask  Mac,  and  he  won’t  go.  I have 
not  yet  heard  from  him. 

“ We  have  a better  cabin  here,  than  we  had  on 
board  the  Britannia ; the  berths  being  much 
wider,  and  the  den  having  two  doors : one  opening 
on  the  ladies’  cabin,  and  one  upon  a little  gallery 
in  the  stern  of  the  boat.  We  expect  to  be  at 
Cincinnati  some  time  on  Monday  morning,  and 
we  carry  about  fifty  passengers.  The  cabin  for 
meals  goes  right  through  the  boat,  from  the  prow 
to  the  stern,  and  is  very  long ; only  a small  por- 
tion of  it  being  divided  off,  by  a partition  of 
wood  and  ground-glass,  for  the  ladies.  We 
breakfast  at  half  after  seven,  dine  at  one,  and 
sup  at  six.  Nobody  will  sit  down  to  any  one 
of  these  meals,  though  the  dishes  are  smoking 
on  the  board,  until  the  ladies  have  appeared, 
and  taken  their  chairs.  It  was  the  same  in  the 
canal  boat. 

“ The  washing  department  is  a little  more 
civilized  than  it  was  on  the  canal,  but  bad  is  the 
best.  Indeed  the  Americans  when  they  are 
travelling,  as  Miss  Martineau  seems  disposed  to 
admit,  are  exceedingly  negligent ; not  to  say 
dirty.  To  the  best  of  my  making  out,  the 
ladies,  under  most  circumstances,  are  content 
with  smearing  their  hands  and  faces  in  a very 
small  quantity  of  water.  So  are  the  men  ; who 
superadd  to  that  mode  of  ablution  a hasty  use 
of  the  common  brush  and  comb.  It  is  quite  a 
practice,  too,  to  wear  but  one  cotton  shirt  a 
week,  and  three  or  four  fine  linen  fronts.  Anne 
reports  that  this  is  Mr.  Q’s  course  of  proceeding  : 
and  my  portrait-painting  friend  told  me  that  it 
was  the  case  with  pretty  nearly  all  his  sitters  ; so 
that  when  he  bought  a piece  of  cloth  not  long 
ago  and  instructed  the  sempstress  to  make  it  all 
into  shirts,  not  fronts,  she  thought  him  deranged. 

“ My  friend  the  New  Englander,  of  whom  I 
wrote  last  night,  is  perhaps  the  most  intolerable 
bore  on  this  vast  continent.  He  drones,  and 
snuffles,  and  writes  poems,  and  talks  small 
philosophy  and  metaphysics,  and  never  will  be 
quiet,  under  any  circumstances.  He  is  going  to 
a great  temperance  convention  at  Cincinnati; 
along  with  a doctor  of  whom  I saw  something  at 
Pittsburgh.  The  doctor,  in  addition  to  being 
everything  that  the  New  Englander  is,  is  a 
phrenologist  besides.  I dodge  them  about  the 
boat.  Whenever  I appear  on  deck,  I see  them 
bearing  down  upon  me- — and  fly.  The  New 
Englander  was  very  anxious  last  night  that  he 


and  I should  ‘ form  a magnetic  chain,’  and  mag- 
netize the  doctor,  for  the  benefit  of  all  incre- 
dulous passengers ; but  I declined,  on  the  plea 
of  tremendous  occupation  in  the  way  of  letter- 
writing. 

“ And  speaking  of  magnetism,  let  me  tell  you 
that  the  other  night  at  Pittsburgh,  there  being 
present  only  Mr.  Q and  the  portrait-painter, 
Kate  sat  down,  laughing,  for  me  to  try  my  hand 
upon  her.  I had  been  holding  forth  upon  the 
subject  rather  luminously,  and  asserting  that  I 
thought  I could  exercise  the  influence,  but  had 
never  tried.  In  six  minutes,  I magnetized  her 
into  hysterics,  and  then  into  the  magnetic  sleep. 
I tried  again  next  night,  and  she  fell  into  the 

slumber  in  little  more  than  two  minutes 

I can  wake  her  with  perfect  ease ; but  I confess 
(not  being  prepared  for  anything  so  sudden  and 
complete)  I was  on  the  first  occasion  rather 
alarmed The  Western  parts  being  some- 

times hazardous,  I have  fitted  out  the  whole  of 
my  little  company  with  Life  Preservers,  which 
I inflate  with  great  solemnity  when  we  get  aboard 
any  boat,  and  keep,  as  Mrs.  Cluppins  did  her 
umbrella  in  the  court  of  common  pleas,  ready 
for  use  upon  a moment’s  notice.”  .... 

He  resumed  his  letter,  on  “ Sunday,  April 
the  third,”  with  allusion  to  a general  who  had 
called  upon  him  in  Washington  with  two  literary 
ladies,  and  had  written  to  him  next  day  for  an 
immediate  interview,  as  “ the  two  LL’s  ” were 
ambitious  of  the  honour  of  a personal  introduc- 
tion. “ Besides  the  doctor  and  the  dread  New 
Englander,  we  have  on  board  that  valiant  general 
who  wrote  to  me  about  the  ‘ two  LL’s.’  He  is 
an  old,  old  man  with  a weazen  face,  and  the 
remains  of  a pigeon-breast  in  his  military  surtout. 
He  is  acutely  gentlemanly  and  officer-like.  The 
breast  has  so  subsided,  and  the  face  has  become 
so  strongly  marked,  that  he  seems,  like  a pigeon- 
pie,  to  show  only  the  feet  of  the  bird  outside,  and 
to  keep  the  rest  to  himself.  He  is  perhaps  the 
most  horrible  bore  in  this  country.  And  I am 
quite  serious  when  I say  that  I do  not  believe 
there  are,  on  the  whole  earth  besides,  so  many 
intensified  bores  as  in  these  United  States.  No 
man  can  form  an  adequate  idea  of  the  real  mean- 
ing of  the  word,  without  coming  here.  There 
are  no  particular  characters  on  board  with  these 
three  exceptions.  Indeed  I seldom  see  the 
passengers  but  at  meal-times,  as  I read  and 

write  in  our  own  little  state  room I 

have  smuggled  two  chairs  into  our  crib ; and 
write  this  on  a book  upon  my  knee.  Everything 
is  in  the  neatest  order,  of  course ; and  my  shaving 
tackle,  dressing  case,  brushes,  books,  and  papers, 
are  arranged  with  as  much  precision  as  if  we 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DLCKENS. 


were  going  to  remain  here  a month.  Tliank 
God  we  are  not. 

“The  average  width  of  the  river  rather  exceeds 
that  of  the  Thames  at  Greenwich,  In  parts  it 
is  much  broader ; and  then  there  is  usually  a 
green  island,  covered  with  trees,  dividing  it  into 


two  streams.  Occasionally  we  stop  for  a few 
minutes  at  a small  town,  or  village  (I  ought  to 
say  city,  everything  is  a city  here)  ; but  the  banks 
are  for  the  most  part  deep  solitudes,  overgrown 
with  trees,  which,  in  these  western  latitudes,  are 
already  in  leaf  and  very  green 


“ HE  IS  PERHAPS  THE  MOST  HORRIBLE  BORE  IN  THIS  COUNTRY.” 


“ All  this  I see  as  I write,  from  the  little  door 
into  the  stern-gallery  which  I mentioned  just 
now.  It  don’t  happen  six  times  in  a day  that 
any  other  passenger  comes  near  it ; and,  as  the 
weather  is  amply  warm  enough  to  admit  of  our 
sitting  with  it  open,  here  we  remain  from  morn- 


ing until  night : reading,  writing,  talking.  What 
our  theme  of  conversation  is,  I need  not  tell  you. 
No  beauty  or  variety  makes  us  weary  less  for 
home.  We  count  the  days,  and  say,  ‘ When 
May  comes,  and  we  can  say — next  month — the 
time  will  seem  almost  gone.’  We  are  never 


JF£ST:  TO  NIAGARA  FALLS. 


113 


tired  of  imagining  what  you  are  all  about.  1 
allow  of  no  calculation  for  the  difference  of 
clocks,  but  insist  on  a corresponding  minute  in 
London.  It  is  much  the  shortest  way,  and  best. 

. . . . Yesterday,  we  drank  your  health  and 
many  happy  returns — in  wine,  after  dinner ; in 
a small  milk-pot  jug  of  gin-punch,  at  night. 
And  when  I made  a temporary  table,  to  hold 
the  little  candlestick,  of  one  of  my  dressing-case 
trays  ; cunningly  inserted  under  the  mattress  of 
my  berth  with  a weight  a-top  of  it  to  keep  it  in 
its  place,  so  that  it  made  a perfectly  exquisite 
bracket ; we  agreed,  that,  please  God,  this  should 
be  a joke  at  the  Star-and-garter  on  the  second  of 
April  eighteen  hundred  and  forty-three.  If  your 
blank  mn  be  surpassed  ....  believe  me  ours 
transcends  it.  My  heart  gets,  sometimes,  sore 
for  home. 

“ At  Pittsburgh  I saw  another  solitary  confine- 
ment prison : Pittsburgh  being  also  in  Penn- 
sylvania. A horrible  thought  occurred  to  me 
when  I was  recalling  all  I had  seen,  that  night. 
JV/iaf  if  ghosts  be  one  of  the  terrors  of  the  jails  2 
I have  pondered  on  it  often,  since  then.  The 
utter  solitude  by  day  and  night ; the  many  hours 
of  darkness  ; the  silence  of  death ; the  mind  for 
ever  brooding  on  melancholy  themes,  and  having 
no  relief;  sometimes  an  evil  conscience  very 
busy : imagine  a prisoner  covering  up  his  head 
in  the  bedclothes  and  looking  out  from  time  to 
time,  with  a ghastly  dread  of  some  inexplicable 
silent  figure  that  always  sits  upon  his  bed,  or 
stands  (if  a thing  can  be  said  to  stand,  that 
never  walks  as  men  do)  in  the  same  corner  of 
his  cell.  The  more  I think  of  it,  the  more 
certain  I feel  that  not  a few  of  these  men 
(during  a portion  of  their  imprisonment  at  least) 
are  nightly  visited  by  spectres.  I did  ask  one 
man  in  this  last  jail,  if  he  dreamed  much.  He 
gave  me  a most  extraordinary  look,  and  said — 
under  his  breath — in  a whisper — ‘No.’”  . . . . 

“Cincinnati.  Fourth  April, 

“ We  arrived  here  this  morning : about  three 
o’clock,  I believe,  but  I was  fast  asleep  in  my 
berth.  I turned  out  soon  after  six,  dressed,  and 
breakfasted  on  board.  About  half  after  eight, 
we  came  ashore  and  drove  to  the  hotel,  to  which 
we  had  written  on  from  Pittsburgh  ordering 
rooms ; and  which  is  within  a stone’s  throw  of 
the  boat  wharf.  Before  I had  issued  an  oflficial 
notification  that  we  were  ‘not  at  home,’  two 
judges  called,  on  the  part  of  the  inhabitants,  to 
know  when  we  would  receive  the  townspeople. 
We  appointed  to-morrow  morning,  from  half- 
past eleven  to  one;  arranged  to  go  out  with 
these  two  gentlemen,  to  see  the  town  at  one ; 


and  were  fixed  for  an  evening  party  to-morrow 
night  at  the  house  of  one  of  them.  On  Wednes- 
day morning  we  go  on  by  the  mail-boat  to  Louis- 
ville, a trip  of  fourteen  hours ; and  from  that 
place  proceed  in  the  next  good  boat  to  St.  Louis, 
which  is  a voyage  of  four  days.  Finding  from 
my  judicial  friends  (well-informed  and  most 
agreeable  gentlemen)  this  morning,  that  the 
prairie  travel  to  Chicago  is  a very  fatiguing  one, 
and  that  the  lakes  are  stormy,  sea-sicky,  and  not 
over-safe  at  this  season,  I wrote  by  our  captain 
to  St.  Louis  (for  the  boat  that  brought  us  here 
goes  on  there),  to  the  effect  that  I should  not 
take  the  lake  route,  but  should  come  back  here ; 
and  should  visit  the  prairies,  which  are  within 
thirty  miles  of  St.  Louis,  immediately  on  my 
arrival  there 

“ I have  walked  to  the  window,  since  I turned 
this  page,  to  see  what  aspect  the  town  wears. 
We  are  in  a wide  street:  paved  in  the  carriage 
way  w'ith  small  white  stones,  and  in  the  footw'ay 
with  small  red  tiles.  The  houses  are  for  the 
most  part  one  story  high ; some  are  of  wood ; 
others  of  a clean  white  brick.  Nearly  all  have 
green  blinds  outside  every  wundow.  The  prin- 
cipal shops  over  the  way,  are,  according  to  the 
inscriptions  over  them,  a Large  Bread  Bakery ; 
a Book  Bindery;  a Dry  Goods  Store;  and  a 
Carriage  Repository ; the  last-named  establish- 
ment looking  very  like  an  exceedingly  small 
retail  coal-shed.  On  the  pavement  under  our 
window,  a black  man  is  chopping  wood;  and 
another  black  man  is  talking  (confidentially)  to 
a pig.  The  public  table,  at  this  hotel,  and  at 
the  hotel  opposite,  has  just  now  finished  dinner. 
The  diners  are  collected  on  the  pavement,  on 
both  sides  of  the  way,  picking  their  teeth,  and 
talking.  The  day  being  warm,  some  of  them 
have  brought  chairs  into  the  street.  Some  are 
on  three  chairs ; some  on  two ; and  some,  in 
defiance  of  all  known  law's  of  gravity,  are  sitting 
quite  comfortably  on  one : with  three  of  the 
chair’s  legs,  and  their  own  two,  high  up  in  the 
air.  The  loungers,  underneath  our  window,  are 
talking  of  a great  Temperance  convention  which 
comes  off  here  to-morrow.  Others,  about  me. 
Others,  about  England.  Sir  Robert  Peel  is 
popular  here,  with  everybody.”  .... 


VI. 

FAR  WEST:  TO  NIAGARA  FALLS. 

1842. 

'~PHE  next  letter  described  his  experiences  in 
the  Far  West,  his  stay  in  St.  Louis,  his  visit 
to  a Prairie,  the  return  to  Cincinnati,  and,  after  a 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICICENS. 


114 


stage-coach  ride  from  that  city  to  Columbus, 
the  travel  thence  to  Sandusky,  and  so,  by 
Lake  Erie,  to  the  Falls  of  Niagara.  All  these 
subjects  appear  in  the  Notes,  but  nothing  printed 
there  is  repeated  in  the  extracts  now  to  be 
given.  Of  the  closing  passages  of  his  journey, 
when  he  turned  from  Columbus  in  the  direc- 
tion of  home,  the  story,  here  for  the  first 
time  told,  is  in  his  most  characteristic  vein  ; the 
account  that  will  be  found  of  the  prairie  will 
probably  be  preferred  to  what  is  given  in  the 
Notes;  the  Cincinnati  sketches  are  very  plea- 
sant ; and  even  such  a description  as  that  of  the 
Niagara  Falls,  of  which  so  much  is  made  in  the 
book,  has  here  an  independent  novelty  and 
freshness.  The  first  vividness  is  in  his  letter. 
The  naturalness  of  associating,  with  a grandeur 
so  mighty  and  resistless,  no  image  or  sense  but 
of  repose,  is  best  presented  suddenly ; and,  in  a 
few  words,  we  have  the  material  as  well  as  moral 
beauty  of  a scene  unrivalled  in  its  kind  upon 
the  earth.  The  instant  impression  we  find  to 
be  worth  more  than  the  eloquent  recollec- 
tion. 

The  captain  of  the  boat  that  had  dropped 
them  at  Cincinnati  and  gone  to  St.  Louis,  had 
stayed  in  the  latter  place  until  they  were  able  to 
join  and  return  with  him  ; this  letter  bears  date 
accordingly,  “ On  board  the  Messenger  again. 
Going  from  St.  Louis  back  to  Cincinnati.  Friday, 
fifteenth  April,  1842  and  its  first  paragraph  is 
an  outline  of  the  movements  which  it  afterwards 
describes  in  detail.  “ We  remained  in  Cincin- 
nati one  whole  day  after  the  date  of  my  last,  and 
left  on  Wednesday  morning  the  6th.  We  reached 
Louisville  soon  after  midnight  on  the  same  night ; 
and  slept  there.  Next  day  at  one  o’clock  we 
put  ourselves  on  board  another  steamer,  and 
travelled  on  until  last  Sunday  evening  the  tenth; 
when  we  reached  St.  Louis  at  about  nine  o’clock. 
The  next  day  we  devoted  to  seeing  the  city. 
Next  day,  Tuesday  the  twelfth,  I started  off 
with  a party  of  men  (we  were  fourteen  in  all)  to 
see  a prairie ; returned  to  St.  Louis  about  noon 
on  the  thirteenth ; attended  a soire'e  and  ball — 
not  a dinner — given  in  my  honour  that  night ; 
and  yesterday  afternoon  at  four  o’clock  we  turned 
our  faces  homewards.  Thank  Heaven  ! 

“ Cincinnati  is  only  fifty  years  old,  but  is  a 
very  beautiful  city:  I think  the  prettiest  place  I 
have  seen  here,  except  Boston.  It  has  risen  out 
of  the  forest  like  an  Arabian-night  city;  is  well 
laid  out ; ornamented  in  the  suburbs  with  pretty 
villas ; and  above  all,  for  this  is  a very  rare 
feature  in  America,  has  smootli  turf-plots  and 
well  kept  gardens.  There  happened  to  be  a 
great  temperance  festival;  and  the  procession 


mustered  under,  and  passed,  our  windows  early 
in  the  morning.  I suppose  they  were  twenty 
thousand  strong,  at  least.  Some  of  the  banners 
were  quaint  and  odd  enough.  The  ship-car- 
penters, for  instance,  displayed  on  one  side  of 
their  flag,  the  good  Ship  Temperance  in  full  sail ; 
on  the  other,  the  Steamer  Alcohol  blowing  up 
sky-high.  The  Irishmen  had  a portrait  of  Father 
Mathew,  you  may  be  sure.  And  Washington’s 
broad  lower  jaw  (by  the  bye,  Washington  had 
not  a pleasant  face)  figured  in  all  parts  of  the 
ranks.  In  a kind  of  square  at  one  outskirt  of 
the  city,  they  divided  into  bodies,  and  were  ad- 
dressed by  different  speakers.  Drier  speaking  I 
never  heard.  I own  that  I felt  quite  uncom- 
fortable to  think  they  could  take  the  taste  of  it 
out  of  their  mouths  with  nothing  better  than 
water. 

“ In  the  evening  we  went  to  a party  at  Judge 
Walker’s,  and  were  introduced  to  at  least  one 
hundred  and  fifty  first-rate  bores,  separately  and 
singly.  I was  required  to  sit  down  by  the  greater 
part  of  them,  and  talk  ! In  the  night  we  were 
serenaded  (as  we  usually  are  in  every  place  we 
come  to),  and  very  well  serenaded,  I assure  you. 
But  we  were  very  much  knocked  up.  I really 
think  my  face  has  acquired  a fixed  expression 
of  sadness  from  the  constant  and  unmitigated 
boring  I endure.  The  LL’s  have  carried  away 
all  my  cheerfulness.  There  is  a line  in  my  chin 
(on  the  right  side  of  the  under-lip),  indelibly 
fixed  there  by  the  New- Englander  I told  you  of 
in  my  last.  I have  the  print  of  a crow’s  foot  on 
the  outside  of  my  left  eye,  which  I attribute  to 
the  literary  characters  of  small  towns.  A dimple 
has  vanished  from  my  cheek,  which  I felt  myself 
robbed  of  at  the  time  by  a wise  legislator.  But 
on  the  other  hand  I am  really  indebted  for  a 
good  broad  grin  to  P E,  literary  critic  of  Phila- 
delphia, and  sole  proprietor  of  the  English  lan- 
guage in  its  grammatical  and  idiomatical  purity; 
to  P E,  with  the  shiny  straight  hair  and  turned- 
down  shirt  collar,  who  taketh  all  of  us  English 
men  of  letters  to  task  in  print,  roundly  and  un- 
compromisingly, but  told  me  at  the  same  time 
that  I had  ‘ awakened  a new  era  ’ in  his  mind. 

“ The  last  200  miles  of  the  voyage  from  Cin- 
cinnati to  St.  Louis  are  upon  the  Mississippi,  for 
you  come  down  the  Ohio  to  its  mouth.  It  is 
well  for  society  that  this  Mississippi,  the  re- 
nowned father  of  waters,  had  no  children  who 
take  after  him.  It  is  the  beastliest  river  in  the 
world.”  ....  (His  description  is  in  the  Notes.) 

“ Conceive  the  pleasure  of  rushing  down  this 
stream  by  night  (as  we  did  last  night)  at  the 
rate  of  fifteen  miles  an  hour ; striking  against 
floating  blocks  of  timber  every  instant ; and 


FAR  WEST:  TO 


dreading  some  infernal  blow  at  every  bump. 
The  helmsman  in  these  boats  is  in  a little  glass- 
house upon  the  roof.  In  the  Mississippi,  another 
man  stands  in  the  very  head  of  the  vessel,  listen- 
ing and  watching  intently;  listening,  because 
they  can  tell  in  dark  nights  by  the  noise  when 
any  great  obstruction  is  at  haml.  This  man 
holds  the  rope  of  a large  bell  which  hangs  close 
to  the  wheel-house,  and  whenever  he  pulls  it, 
the  engine  is  to  stop  directly,  and  not  to  stir 
until  he  rings  again.  Last  night,  this  bell  rang 
at  least  once  in  every  five  minutes ; and  at  each 
alarm  there  was  a concussion  which  nearly  flung 

one  out  of  bed While  I have  been  writing 

this  account,  we  have  shot  out  of  that  hideous 
river,  thanks  be  to  God ; never  to  see  it  again,  I 
hope,  but  in  a nightmare.  We  are  now  on  the 
smooth  Ohio,  and  the  change  is  like  the  transi- 
tion from  pain  to  perfect  ease. 

“ We  had  a very  crowded  levee  in  St.  Louis. 
Of  course  the  paper  had  an  account  of  it.  If  I 
were  to  drop  a letter  in  the  street,  it  would  be  in 
the  newspaper  next  day,.and  nobody  would  think 
its  publication  an  outrage.  The  editor  objected 
to  my  hair,  as  not  curling  sufficiently.  He  ad- 
mitted an  eye;  but  objected  again  to  dress,  as 
being  somewhat  foppish,  ‘and  indeed  perhaps 
rather  flash. — But  such,’  he  benevolently  adds, 
‘ are  the  differences  between  American  and  Eng- 
lish taste — rendered  more  apparent,  perhaps,  by 
all  the  other  gentlemen  present  being  dressed  in 
black.’  Oh,  that  you  could  have  seen  the  other 
gentlemen ! . . . 

“ A St.  Louis  lady  complimented  Kate  upon 
her  voice  and  manner  of  speaking,  assuring  her 
that  she  should  never  have  suspected  her  of 
being  Scotch,  or  even  English.  She  was  so 
obliging  as  to  add  that  she  would  have  taken 
her  for  an  American  anywhere  : which  she  (Kate) 
f was  no  doubt  aware  was  a very  great  compliment, 
as  the  Americans  were  admitted  on  all  hands  to 
have  greatly  refined  upon  the  English  language  ! 
I need  not  tell  you  that  out  of  Boston  and  New 
York  a nasal  drawl  is  universal,  but  I may  as 
well  hint  that  the  prevailing  grammar  is  also 
more  than  doubtful ; that  the  oddest  vulgarisms 
are  received  idioms;  that  all  the  women  who 
have  been  bred  in  slave-states  speak  more  or 
less  like  negroes,  from  having  been  constantly 
in  their  childhood  with  black  nurses ; and  that 
the  most  fashionable  and  aristocratic  (these  are 
two  words  in  great  use),  instead  of  asking  you 
in  what  place  you  were  born,  enquire  where  you 
‘ hail  from  ! ! ’ 

“ Lord  Ashburton  arrived  at  Annapolis  t’other 
day,  after  a voyage  of  forty  odd  days  in  heavy 
weather.  Straightway  the  newspapers  state,  on 


NIAGARA  FALLS.  115 


the  authority  of  a correspondent  who  ‘ rowed 
round  the  ship’  (I  leave  you  to  fancy  her  con- 
dition), that  America  need  fear  no  superiority 
from  England,  in  respect  of  her  wooden  walls. 
The  same  correspondent  is  ‘ quite  pleased’  with 
the  frank  manner  of  the  English  officers;  and 
patronizes  them  as  being,  for  John  Bulls,  quite 
refined.  My  face,  like  Haji  Baba’s,  turns  upside 
down,  and  my  liver  is  changed  to  water,  when  I 
come  upon  such  things,  and  think  who  writes 

and  who  read  them 

“ They  won’t  let  me  alone  about  slavery.  A 
certain  Judge  in  St.  Louis  went  so  far  yesterday, 
that  I fell  upon  him  (to  the  indescribable  horror 
of  the  man  who  brought  him)  and  told  him  a 
piece  of  my  mind.  I said  that  I was  very  averse 
to  speaking  on  the  subject  here,  and  always  for- 
bore, if  possible  : but  when  he  pitied  our  national 
ignorance  of  the  truths  of  slavery,  I must  remind 
him  that  we  went  upon  indisputable  records, 
obtained  after  many  years  of  careful  investiga- 
tion, and  at  all  sorts  of  self-sacrifice ; and  that  I 
believed  we  were  much  more  competent  to  judge 
of  its  atrocity  and  horror,  than  he  who  had  been 
brought  up  in  the  midst  of  it.  I told  him  that  I 
could  sympathise  with  men  who  admitted  it  to 
be  a dreadful  evil,  but  frankly  confessed  their 
inability  to  devise  a means  of  getting  rid  of  it : j 
but  that  men  who  spoke  of  it  as  a blessing,  as  a 
matter  of  course,  as  a state  of  things  to  be  desired,  ' 
were  out  of  the  pale  of  reason;  and  that  for  i 
them  to  speak  of  ignorance  or  prejudice  was  an  I 

absurdity  too  ridiculous  to  be  combated I 

“ It  is  not  six  years  ago,  since  a slave  in  this  ' 
very  same  St.  Louis  being  arrested  (I  forget  for 
what),  and  knowing  he  had  no  chance  of  a fair 
trial  be  his  offence  what  it  might,  drew  his  bowie 
knife  and  ripped  the  constable  across  the  body. 

A scuffle  ensuing,  the  desperate  negro  stabbed 
two  others  with  the  same  weapon.  The  mob 
who  gathered  round  (among  whom  were  men  of 
mark,  wealth,  and  influence  in  the  place)  over- 
powered him  by  numbers  ; carried  him  away  to 
a piece  of  open  ground  beyond  the  city ; and 
bur7ied  hhn  alive.  This,  I say,  was  done  within 
six  years  in  broad  day ; in  a city  with  its  courts, 
lawyers,  tipstaffs,  judges,  jails,  and  hangman ; 
and  not  a hair  on  the  head  of  one  of  those  men 
has  been  hurt  to  this  day.  And  it  is,  believe  me, 
it  is  the  miserable,  wretched  independence  in 
small  things ; the  paltry  republicanism  which  re- 
coils from  honest  service  to  an  honest  man,  but 
does  not  shrink  from  every  trick,  artifice,  and 
knavery  in  business ; that  makes  these  slaves 
necessary,  and  will  render  them  so,  until  the 
indignation  of  other  countries  sets  them  free. 

“ They  say  the  slaves  are  fond  of  their  masters. 


IIIE  LIFE  OE  C1L4RLES  DlCIvENS. 


i i 1 1 6 


{ Look  at  this  pretty  vignette  (part  of  the  stock- 
I in-trade  of  a newspaper),  and  judge  how  you 
would  feel,  when  men,  looking  in  your  face,  told 
you  such  tales  with  the  newspaper  lying  on  the 
fable.  In  all  the  slave  districts,  advertisements 
for  runaways  are  as  much  matters  of  course  as  the 
announcement  of  the  play  for  the  evening  with 
us.  The  poor  creatures  themselves  fairly  worship 
English  people : they  would  do  anything  for 
them.  They  are  perfectly  acquainted  with  all 
that  takes  place  in  reference  to  emancipation ; 
and  of  course  their  attachment  to  us  grows  out 
> of  their  deep  devotion  to  their  owners.  I cut 
I this  illustration  out  of  a newspaper  which  had  a 
j leader  in  reference  to  the  abominable  and  hellish 
I -docti-ine  of  Abolition — repugnant  alike  to  every  law 

\ of  God  and  Nature.  ‘ 1 know  something,’  said  a 
' I Dr.  Bartlett  (a  very  accomplished  man),  late  a 
fellow-passenger  of  ours : ‘ I know  something 
of  their  fondness  for  their  masters.  I live  in 
Kentucky ; ^tncl  I can  assert  upon  my  honour, 
that,  in  my  neighbourhood,  it  is  as  common  for 
n runaway  slave,  retaken,  to  draw  his  bowie 
knife  and  rip  his  owner’s  bowels  open,  as  it  is 
for  you  to  see  a drunken  fight  in  London.’ 

I I “Same  Boat, 

I '^Saturday  Sixteenth  April,  1842. 

“ Let  me  tell  you,  my  dear  Forster,  before  I 
forget  it,  a pretty  little  scene  we  had  on  board 
the  boat  between  Louisville  and  §t.  Louis,  as  we 
were  going  to  the  latter  place.  It  is  not  much 
to  tell,  but  it  was  very  pleasant  and  interesting 
to  witness.” 

What  follows  has  been  printed  in  the  Notes, 
and  ought  not,  by  the  rule  I have  laid  down,  to 
be  given  here.  But,  beautiful  as  the  printed 
description  is,  it  has  not  profited  by  the  altera- 
tion of  some  touches  and  the  omission  of  others 
in  the  first  fresh  version  of  it,  which,  for  that 
reason,  I here  preserve — one  of  the  most  charm- 
ing soul-felt  pictures  of  character  and  emotion 
that  ever  warmed  the  heart  in  fact  or  fiction. 
It  was,  I think,  Jeffrey’s  favourite  passage  in  all 
the  writings  of  Dickens : and  certainly,  if  any- 
one would  learn  the  secret  of  their  popularity,  it 
is  to  be  read  in  the  observation  and  description 
of  this  little  incident. 

“ There  was  a little  woman  on  board,  with  a 
little  baby ; and  both  little  woman  and  little 
child  were  cheerful,  good-looking,  bright-eyed, 
and  fair  to  see.  The  little  woman  had  been 
passing  a long  time  with  a sick  mother  in  New 
York,  and  had  left  her  home  in  St.  Louis  in  that 
condition  in  which  ladies  who  truly  love  their 
lords  desire  to  be.  The  baby  had  been  born  in 
h.er  mother’s  house,  and  she  had  not  seen  her 


husband  (to  whom  she  was  now  returning)  for 
twelve  months  : having  left  him  a month  or  two 
after  their  marriage.  Well,  to  be  sure,  there 
never  was  a little  woman  so  full  of  hope,  and 
tenderness,  and  love,  and  anxiety,  as  this  little 
woman  was  : and  there  she  was,  all  the  livelong 
day,  wondering  whether  ‘ he  ’ would  be  at  the 
wharf ; and  whether  ‘ he  ’ had  got  her  letter  ; 
and  whether,  if  she  sent  the  baby  on  shore  by 
somebody  else,  ‘ he  ’ would  know  it,  meeting  it  in 
the  street : which,  seeing  that  he  had  never  set 
eyes  upon  it  in  his  life,  was  not  very  likely  in  the 
abstract,  but  was  probable  enough  to  the  young 
mother.  She  was  such  an  artless  little  creature  ; 
and  was  in  such  a sunny,  beaming,  hopeful 
state ; and  let  out  all  this  matter,  clinging  close 
about  her  heart,  so  freely;  that  all  the  other 
lady  passengers  entered  into  the  spirit  of  it  as 
much  as  she  ; and  the  captain  (who  heard  all 
about  it  from  his  wife)  was  wondrous  sly,  I pro- 
mise you  : enquiring,  every  time  we  met  at  table, 
whether  she  expected  anybody  to  meet  her  at 
St.  Louis,  and  supposing  she  wouldn’t  want  to 
go  ashore  the  night  we  reached  it,  and  cutting 
many  other  dry  jokes  which  convulsed  all  his 
hearers,  but  especially  the  ladies.  There  was 
one  little,  weazen,  dried-apple  old  woman  among 

them,  who  took  occasion  to  doubt  the  constancy 
of  husbands  under  such  circumstances  of  be- 
reavement ; and  there  was  another  lady  (with  a 
lap  dog),  old  enough  to  moralize  on  the  light- 
ness of  human  affections,  and  yet  not  so  old 
that  she  could  help  nursing  the  baby  now  and 

then,  or  laughing  with  the  rest  when  the  little 
woman  called  it  by  its  father’s  name,  and  asked 
it  all  manner  of  fantastic  questions  concerning 
him,  in  the  joy  of  her  heart.  It  was  something 
of  a blow  to  the  little  woman  that  when  we  were 
within  twenty  miles  of  our  destination,  it  became 
clearly  necessary  to  put  the  baby  to  bed  ; but 
she  got  over  that  with  the  same  good  humour, 
tied  a little  handkerchief  over  her  little  head, 
and  came  out  into  the  gallery  with  the  rest. 
Then,  such  an  oracle  as  she  became  in  reference 
to  the  localities  ! and  such  facetiousness  as  was 
displayed  by  the  married  ladies  ! and  such  sym- 
pathy as  was  shown  by  the  single  ones ! and 
such  peals  of  laughter  as  the  little  woman  her- 
self (who  would  just  as  soon  have  cried)  greeted 
every  jest  with  ! At  last,  there  were  the  lights 
of  St.  Louis — and  here  was  the  wharf — and 
those  were  the  steps — and  the  little  woman, 
covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  laughing, 
or  seeming  to  laugh,  more  than  ever,  ran  into 
her  own  cabin,  and  shut  herself  up  tight.  1 
have  no  doubt  that,  in  the  charming  incon- 
sistency of  such  excitement,  she  stoppeil  her 


FAH  WEST:  TO 


ears  lest  she  slioulcl  hear  ‘ him  ’ asking  for  her ; 
but  1 didn’t  see  her  do  it.  Then  a great  crowd 
of  people  rushed  on  board,  though  the  boat  was 
not  yet  made  fast,  and  was  staggering  about 
among  the  other  boats  to  find  a landing-place ; 
and  everybody  looked  for  the  husband,  and  no- 
body saw  him ; when  all  of  a sudden,  right  in 
the  midst  of  them — God  knows  how  she  ever 
got  there — there  was  the  little  woman  hugging 
with  both  arms  round  the  neck  of  a fine,  good- 
looking,  sturdy  fellow  ! And  in  a moment  after- 
wards, there  she  was  again,  dragging  him  through 
the  small  door  of  her  small  cabin,  to  look  at  the 
baby  as  he  lay  asleep  ! — What  a good  thing  it  is 
to  know  that  so  many  of  us  would  have  been 
quite  downhearted  and  sorry  if  that  husband  had 
failed  to  come.” 

He  then  resumes : but  in  what  follows  no- 
thing is  repeated  that  will  be  found  in  his  printed 
description  of  the  jaunt  to  the  looking-glass 
prairie. 

“ But  about  the  Prairie — it  is  not,  I must  con- 
fess, so  good  in  its  way  as  this ; but  I’ll  tell  you 
all  about  that  too,  and  leave  you  to  judge  for 
yourself.  Tuesday  the  12  th  was  the  day  fixed ; 
and  we  were  to  start  at  five  in  the  morning — 
sharp.  I turned  out  at  four;  shaved  and  dressed ; 
got  some  bread  and  milk ; and  throwing  up  the 
window,  looked  down  into  the  street.  Deuce 
a coach  was  there,  nor  did  anybody  seem  to  be 
stirring  in  the  house.  I waited  until  half-past 
five;  but  no  preparations  being  visible  even 
then,  I left  Mr.  Q to  look  out,  and  lay  down 
upon  the  bed  again.  There  I slept  until  nearly 

seven,  when  I was  called Exclusive  of 

Mr.  Q and  myself,  there  were  twelve  of  my 
committee  in  the  party  ; all  lawyers  except  one. 
He  was  an  intelligent,  mild,  well-informed  gen- 
tleman of  my  own  age — the  Unitarian  minister 
of  the  place.  With  him,  and  two  other  com- 
panions, I got  into  the  first  coach 

“ We  halted  at  so  good  an  inn  at  Lebanon 
that  we  resolved  to  return  there  at  night,  if 
possible.  One  would  scarcely  find  a better 
village  alehouse  of  a homely  kind  in  England. 
During  our  halt  I walked  into  the  village,  and 
met  a dwelling-house  coming  down  hill  at  a good 
round  trot,  drawn  by  some  twenty  oxen  ! We 
resumed  our  journey  as  soon  as  possible,  and 
got  upon  the  looking-glass  prairie  at  sunset. 
We  halted  near  a solitary  log-house  for  the  sake 
of  its  water;  unpacked  the  baskets;  formed  an 
encampment  with  the  carriages;  and  dined. 

“ Now,  a prairie  is  undoubtedly  worth  seeing 
— but  more  that  one  may  say  one  has  seen  it, 
than  for  any  sublimity  it  possesses  in  itself.  Like 
most  things,  great  or  small,  in  this  country,  you 
Life  of  Charles  Dickens,  9. 


NIAGARA  FALLS.  117 


hear  of  it  with  considerable  exaggerations.  Basil 
Hall  was  really  quite  right  in  depreciating  the 
general  character  of  the  scenery.  The  widely- 
famed  Far  West  is  not  to  be  compared  with  even 
the  tamest  portions  of  Scotland  or  Wales.  You 
stand  upon  the  prairie,  and  see  the  unbroken 
horizon  all  round  you.  You  are  on  a great 
plain,  which  is  like  a sea  without  water.  I am 
exceedingly  fond  of  wild  and  lonely  scenery, 
and  believe  that  I have  the  faculty  of  being  as 
much  impressed  by  it  as  any  man  living.  But 
the  prairie  fell,  by  far,  short  of  my  preconceived 
idea.  I felt  no  such  emotions  as  I do  in  cross- 
ing Salisbury  plain.  The  excessive  flatness  of 
the  scene  makes  it  dreary,  but  tame.  Grandeur 
is  certainly  not  its  characteristic.  I retired  from 
the  rest  of  the  party,  to  understand  my  own  feel- 
ings the  better ; and  looked  all  round,  again  and 
again.  It  was  fine.  It  was  worth  the  ride.  The 
sun  was  going  down,  very  red  and  bright ; and 
the  prospect  looked  like  that  ruddy  sketch  of 
Gatlin’s,  which  attracted  our  attention  (you  re- 
member?); except  that  there  was  not  so  much 
ground  as  he  represents  between  the  spectator 
and  the  horizon.  But  to  say  (as  the  fashion  is, 
here)  that  the  sight  is  a landmark  in  one’s  exist- 
ence, and  awakens  a new  set  of  sensations,  is 
sheer  gammon.  I would  say  to  every  man  who 
can’t  see  a prairie — go  to  Salisbury  plain,  Marl- 
borough downs,  or  any  of  the  broad,  high,  open 
lands  near  the  sea.  Many  of  them  are  fully  as 
impressive ; and  Salisbury  plain  is  decidedly 
more  so. 

“We  had  brought  roast  fowls,  buffalo’s  tongue, 
ham,  bread,  cheese,  butter,  biscuits,  sherry,  cham- 
pagne, lemons  and  sugar  for  punch,  and  abun- 
dance of  ice.  It  was  a delicious  meal : and  as 
they  were  most  anxious  that  I should  be  pleased, 

I warmed  myself  into  a state  of  surpassing  jollity; 
proposed  toasts  from  the  coach-box  (which  was 
the  chair);  ate  and  drank  with  the  best;  and 
made,  I believe,  an  excellent  companion  to  a 
very  friendly  companionable  party.  In  an  hour 
or  so,  we  packed  up,  and  drove  back  to  the  inn 
at  Lebanon.  While  supper  was  preparing,  I 
took  a pleasant  walk  with  my  Unitarian  friend ; 
and  when  it  was  over  (we  drank  nothing  with  it 
but  tea  and  coffee)  we  went  to  bed.  The  clergy- 
man and  I had  an  exquisitely  clean  little  cham- 
ber of  our  own : and  the  rest  of  the  party  were 
quartered  overhead 

“ We  got  back  to  St.  Louis  soon  after  twelve 
at  noon  ; and  I rested  during  the  remainder  of 
the  day.  The  soiree  came  off  at  night,  in  a very 
good  ball-room  at  our  inn — the  Planter’s-house. 
The  whole  of  the  guests  were  introduced  to  us, 
singly.  We  were  glad  enough,  you  may  believe, 
4 L7 


1 

ii8  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DLCKENS. 

to  come  away  at  midnight ; and  were  very  tired. 
Yesterday,  I wore  a blouse.  To-day,  a fur-coat. 
Trying  changes ! 

“ In  the  same  Boat. 

“Sunday,  Sixteenth  April,  1842. 

“ The  inns  in  these  outlandish  corners  of  the 
world  would  astonish  you  by  their  goodness. 
The  Planter’s-house  is  as  large  as  the  Middlesex- 
hospital  and  built  very  much  on  our  hospital 
plan,  with  long  wards  abundantly  ventilated,  and 
plain  whitewashed  walls.  They  had  a famous 
notion  of  sending  up  at  breakfast- time  large 
glasses  of  new  milk  with  blocks  of  ice  in  them 
as  clear  as  crystal.  Our  table  was  abundantly 
supplied  indeed  at  every  meal.  One  day  when 
Kate  and  I were  dining  alone  together,  in  our 
own  room,  we  counted  sixteen  dishes  on  the 
table  at  the  same  time. 

“ The  society  is  pretty  rough,  and  intolerably 
conceited.  All  the  inhabitants  are  young.  / 
didn't  see  one  grey  head  m St.  Louis.  There  is  an 
island  close  by,  called  bloody  island.  It  is  the 
duelling  ground  of  St.  Louis  j and  is  so  called 
; from  the  last  fatal  duel  which  was  fought  there. 
It  was  a pistol  duel,  breast  to  breast,  and  both 
parties  fell  dead  at  the  same  time.  One  of  our 
prairie  party  (a  young  man)  had  acted  there  as 
second  in  several  encounters.  The  last  occa- 
sion was  a duel  with  rifles,  at  forty  paces ; and 
coming  home  he  told  us  how  he  had  bought  his 
man  a coat  of  green  linen  to  fight  in,  woollen 
being  usually  fatal  to  rifle  wounds.  Prairie  is 
variously  called  (on  the  refinement  principle,  I 
suppose)  Paraarer ; par^arer ; and  paroarer.  I am 
afraid,  my  dear  fellow,  you  will  have  had  great 
difticulty  in  reading  all  the  foregoing  text.  I 
have  W'litten  it,  very  laboriously,  on  my  knee; 
and  the  engine  throbs  and  starts  as  if  the  boat 
were  possessed  with  a devil. 

“ Sandusky. 

“ Sunday,  Twenty-fourth  April,  1842. 

“We  went  ashore  at  Louisville  this  night 
week,  where  I left  off,  two  lines  above;  and 
slept  at  the  hotel,  in  which  we  had  put  up 
before.  The  Messenger  being  abominably  slow, 
we  got  our  luggage  out  next  morning,  and  started 
on  again  at  eleven  o’clock  in  the  Benjamin 
Franklin  mail  boat : a splendid  vessel  with  a 
cabin  more  than  two  hundred  feet  long,  and 
little  state-rooms  affording  proportionate  con- 
veniences. She  got  in  at  Cincinnati  by  one 
o’clock  next  morning,  when  we  landed  in  the 
dark  and  went  back  to  our  old  hotel.  As  we 
made  our  way  on  foot  over  the  broken  pavement, 
Anne  measured  her  length  upon  the  ground,  but 
didn’t  hurt  herself.  I say  nothing  of  Kate’s 

troubles — but  you  recollect  her  propensity? 
She  falls  into,  or  out  of,  every  coach  or  boat  we 
enter ; scrapes  the  skin  off  her  legs ; brings 
great  sores  and  swellings  on  her  feet ; chips  large 
fragments  out  of  her  ankle-bones ; and  makes 
herself  blue  with  bruises.  She  really  has,  how- 
ever, since  we  got  over  the  first  trial  of  being 
among  circumstances  so  new  and  so  fatiguing, 
made  a most  admirable  traveller  in  every  respect. 
She  has  never  screamed  or  expressed  alarm 
under  circumstances  that  would  have  fully  justi- 
fied her  in  doing  so,  even  in  my  eyes ; has  never 
given  way  to  despondency  or  fatigue,  though  we 
have  now  been  travelling  incessantly,  through  a 
very  rough  country,  for  more  than  a month,  and 
have  been  at  times,  as  you  may  readily  suppose, 
most  thoroughly  tired;  has  always  accommo- 
dated herself,  well  and  cheerfully,  to  everything ; 
and  has  pleased  me  very  much,  and  p^roved 
herself  perfectly  game. 

“ We  remained  at  Cincinnati,  all  Tuesday  the 
nineteenth,  and  all  that  night.  At  eight  o’clock 
on  Wednesday  morning  the  twentieth,  we  left  in 
the  mail  stage  for  Columbus  : Anne,  Kate,  and 
Mr.  Q inside ; I on  the  box.  The  distance  is  a 
hundred  and  twenty  miles  ; the  road  macadam- 
ized ; and  for  an  American  road,  very  good. 
We  were  three  and  twenty  hours  performing  the 
journey.  We  travelled  all  night;  reached 
Columbus  at  seven  in  the  morning ; breakfasted ; 
and  went  to  bed  until  dinner  time.  At  night 
we  held  a levee  for  half  an  hour,  and  the  people 
poured  in  as  they  always  do : each  gentleman 
with  a lady  on  each  arm,  e.xactly  like  the  Chorus 
to  God  Save  the  Queen.  I wish  you  could  see 
them,  that  you  might  know  what  a splendid 
comparison  this  is.  They  wear  their  clothes, 
precisely  as  the  chorus  jreople  do ; and  stand — 
supposing  Kate  and  me  to  be  in  the  centre  of 
the  stage,  with  our  backs  to  the  footlights — ^just 
as  the  company  would,  on  the  first  night  of  the 
season.  They  shake  hands  exactly  after  the 
manner  of  the  guests  at  a ball  at  the  Adelphi  or 
the  Haymarket;  receive  any  facetiousness  on 
my  part,  as  if  there  were  a stage  direction  ‘ all 
laugh;’  and  have  rather  more  difficulty  in 
‘getting  off’  than  the  last  gentlemen,  in  white 
pantaloons,  polished  boots,  and  berlins,  usually 
display,  under  the  most  trying  circumstances. 

“ Next  morning,  that  is  to  say  on  Friday  the 
22nd  at  seven  o’.clock  exactly,  we  resumed  our 
journey.  The  stage  from  Columbus  to  this 
place  only  running  thrice  a week,  and  not  on 
that  day,  I bargained  for  an  ‘ exclusive  extra  ’ 
with  four  horses,  for  which  I paid  forty  dollars, 
or  eight  pounds  English  : the  horses  changing, 
as  they  would  if  it  were  the  regular  st;ige. 

WhST:  TO  ISilAGARA  FALLS.  119 


To  ensure  our  getting  on  properly,  the  proprietors 
sent  an  agent  on  tlie  box ; and  with  no  other 
company  but  him  and  a hamper  full  of  eatables 
and  drinkables,  we  went  upon  our  way.  It  is 
impossible  to  convey  an  adequate  idea  to  you 
of  the  kind  of  road  over  which  we  travelled.  I 
can  only  say  that  it  was,  at  the  best,  but  a track 
through  the  wild  forest,  and  among  the  swamps, 
bogs,  and  morasses  of  the  withered  bush.  A 
great  portion  of  it  was  what  is  called  a ‘ corduroy 
road  : ’ which  is  made  by  throwing  round  logs  or 
whole  trees  into  a swamp,  and  leaving  them  to 
settle  there.  Good  Heaven  ! if  you  only  felt 
one  of  the  least  of  the  jolts  with  which  the  coach 
falls  from  log  to  log  ! It  is  like  nothing  but 
going  up  a steep  flight  of  stairs  in  an  omnibus. 
Now  the  coach  flung  us  in  a heap  on  its  floor, 
and  now  crushed  our  heads  against  its  roof. 
Now  one  side  of  it  was  deep  in  the  mire,  and 
we  were  holding  on  to  the  other.  Now  it  was 
lying  on  the  horses’  tails,  and  now  again  upon 
its  own  back.  But  it  never,  never,  was  in  any 
position,  attitude,  or  kind  of  motion  to  which  we 
are  accustomed  in  coaches  ; or  made  the  smallest 
approach  to  our  experience  of  the  proceedings 
of  any  sort  of  vehicle  that  goes  on  wheels.  Still, 
the  day  was  beautiful,  the  air  delicious,  and  we 
were  alone:  with  no  tobacco  spittle,  or  eternal 
prosy  conversation  about  dollars  and  politics 
(the  only  two  subjects  they  ever  converse 
about,  or  can  converse  upon)  to  bore  us.  We 
really  enjoyed  it;  made  a joke  of  the  being 
knocked  about ; and  were  quite  merry.  At  two 
o’clock  we  stopped  in  the  wood  to  open  our 
hamper  and  dine  ; and  we  drank  to  our  darlings 
and  all  friends  at  home.  Then  we  started 
again  and  went  on  until  ten  o’clock  at  night : 
when  we  reached  a place  called  Lower  Sandusky, 
sixty-two  miles  from  our  starting  point.  The 
last  three  hours  of  the  journey  were  not  very 
pleasant,  for  it  lightened — awfully ; every  flash 
very  vivid,  very  blue,  and  very  long : and,  the 
wood  being  so  dense  that  the  branches  on  either 
side  of  the  track  rattled  and  broke  against  the 
coach,  it  was  rather  a dangerous  neighbourhood 
for  a thunder  storm. 

“ The  inn  at  which  we  halted  was  a rough 
log-house.  The  people  were  all  abed,  and  we 
had  to  knock  them  up.  We  had  the  queerest 
sleeping  room,  with  two  doors,  one  opposite  the 
other ; both  opening  directly  on  the  wild  black 
country,  and  neither  having  any  lock  or  bolt. 
The  effect  of  these  opposite  doors  was,  that  one 
was  always  blowing  the  other  open  : an  ingenuity 
in  the  art  of  building,  which  1 don’t  remember 
to  have  met  with  before.  You  should  have  seen 
me,  in  my  shirt,  blockading  them  with  port- 


manteaus, and  desperately  endeavouring  to  make 
the  room  tidy ! But  the  blockading  was  really 
needful,  for  in  my  dressing  case  I have  about 
250/.  in  gold  ; and  for  the  amount  of  the  middle 
figure  in  that  scarce  metal,  there  are  not  a few 
men  in  the  West  who  would  murder  their  fathers. 
Apropos  of  this  golden  store,  consider  at  your 
leisure  the  strange  state  of  things  in  this  country. 
It  has  no  money;  yq3.\\y  no  tnoney.  The  bank 
paper  won’t  pass  ; the  newspapers  are  full  of  ad- 
vertisements from  tradesmen  who  sell  by  barter ; 
and  American  gold  is  not  to  be  had,  or  pur- 
chased. I bought  sovereigns,  English  sovereigns 
at  first ; but  as  I could  get  none  of  them  at  Cin- 
cinnati to  this  day,  I have  had  to  purchase 
French  gold  ; 20-franc  i^ieces  ; with  which  I am 
travelling  as  if  I were  in  Paris  ! 

“ But  let’s  go  back  to  Lower  Sandusky.  Mr. 
Q went  to  bed  up  in  the  roof  of  the  log-house 
somewhere,  but  was  so  beset  by  bugs  that  he 
got  up  after  an  hour  and  lay  in  the  coach  .... 
where  he  was  obliged  to  wait  till  breakfast  time. 
AVe  breakfasted,  driver  and  all,  in  the  one  common 
room.  It  was  papered  with  newspapers,  and  was 
as  rough  a place  as  need  be.  At  half  past  seven 
we  started  again,  and  we  reached  Sandusky  at 
six  o’clock  yesterday  afternoon.  It  is  on  Lake 
Erie,  twenty-four  hours’  journey  by  steam  boat 
from  Buffalo.  We  found  no  boat  here,  nor  has 
there  been  one,  since.  We  are  waiting,  with 
every  thing  packed  up,  ready  to  start  on  the 
shortest  notice ; and  are  anxiously  looking  out 
for  smoke  in  the  distance. 

“ There  was  an  old  gentleman  in  the  Log  inn 
at  Lower  Sandusky  who  treats  with  the  Indians 
on  the  part  of  the  American  government,  and 
has  just  concluded  a treaty  with  the  Wyandot 
Indians  at  that  place  to  remove  next  year  to 
some  land  provided  for  them  west  of  the  Missis- 
sippi ; a little  way  beyond  St.  Louis.  He  de- 
scribed his  negotiation  to  me,  and  their  reluc- 
tance to  go,  exceedingly  well.  They  are  a fine 
people,  but  degraded  and  broken  down.  If  you 
could  see  any  of  their  men  and  women  on  a 
race-course  in  England,  you  would  not  know 
them  from  gipsies. 

“ We  are  in  a small  house  here,  but  a very 
comfortable  one,  and  the  people  are  exceedingly 
obliging.  Their  demeanour  in  these  country 
parts  is  invariably  morose,  sullen,  clownish,  and 
repulsive.  I should  think  there  is  not,  on  the 
face  of  the  earth,  a people  so  entirely  destitute 
of  humour,  vivacity,  or  the  capacity  of  enjoy- 
ment. It  is  most  remarkable.  I am  quite  serious 
when  I say  that  I have  not  heard  a hearty  laugh 
these  six  weeks,  except  my  own ; nor  have  I 
seen  a merry  face  on  any  shoulders  but  a black. 


120  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


man’s.  Lounging  listlessly  about,  idling  in  bar- 
rooms; smoking;  spitting;  and  lolling  on  the 
pavement  in  rocking-chairs,  outside  the  shop 
doors ; are  the  only  recreations.  I don’t  think  the 
national  shrewdness  e.xtends  beyond  the  Yankees ; 
that  is,  the  Eastern  men.  The  rest  are  heavy,  dull, 
and  ignorant.  Our  landlord  here  is  from  the  East. 
He  is  a handsome,  obliging,  civil  fellow.  He 
comes  into  the  room  with  his  hat  on  ; spits  in  the 
fireplace  as  he  talks  ; sits  down  on  the  sofa  with 
his  hat  on ; pulls  out  his  newspaper,  and  reads  : 
but  to  all  this  I am  accustomed.  He  is  anxious 
to  please — and  that  is  enough. 

“ We  are  wishing  very  much  for  a boat ; for  we 
hope  to  find  our  letters  at  Buffalo.  It  is  half  past 
one ; and  as  there  is  no  boat  in  sight,  we  are  fain 
(sorely  against  our  wills)  to  order  an  early  dinner. 

“ Tuesday,  April  Twenty-sixth,  1842. 

“Niagara  Falls!!!  (upon  the  English  Side). 

■“  I don’t  know  at  what  length  I might  have 
written  you  from  Sandusky,  my  beloved  friend, 
if  a steamer  had  not  come  in  sight  just  as  I 
finished  the  last  unintelligible  sheet  (oh  ! the  ink 
in  these  parts  !)  ; whereupon  I was  obliged  to 
pack  up  bag  and  baggage,  to  swallow  a hasty 
apology  for  a dinner,  and  to  hurry  my  train 
on  board  with  all  the  speed  I might.  She  was  a 
fine  steamship,  four  hundred  tons  burden,  name 
the  Constitution,  had  very  few  passengers  on 
board,  and  had  bountiful  and  handsome  accom- 
modation. It’s  all  very  fine  talking  about  Lake 
Erie,  but  it  won’t  do  for  persons  who  are  liable 
to  sea-sickness.  We  were  all  sick.  It’s  almost 
as  bad  in  that  respect  as  the  Atlantic.  The  waves 
are  very  short,  and  horribly  constant.  We  reached 
Buffalo  at  six  this  morning;  went  ashore  to  break- 
fast ; sent  to  the  post-office  forthwith ; and  re- 
ceived— oh  ! who  or  what  can  say  with  how 
much  pleasure  and  what  unspeakable  delight  ! 
— our  English  letters  ! 

“ We  lay  all  Sunday  night,  at  a town  (and  a 
beautiful  town  too)  called  Cleveland ; on  Lake 
Erie.  The  people  poured  on  board,  in  crowds, 
by  six  on  Monday  morning,  to  see  me ; and  a 
party  of  ‘gentlemen’  actually  planted  themselves 
before  our  little  cabin,  and  stared  in  at  the  door 
and  windows  while  I tvas  washmg,  and  Kate  lay 
in  bed.  I was  so  incensed  at  this,  and  at  a cer- 
tain newspaper  published  in  that  town  which  I 
had  accidentally  seen  in  Sandusky  (advocating 
war  with  England  to  the  death,  saying  that 
Britain  must  be  ‘ whipped  again,’  and  promising 
all  true  Americans  that  within  two  years  they 
should  sing  Yankee-doodle  in  Hyde-park  and 
Hail  Columbia  in  the  courts  of  Westminster), 
that  when  the  mayor  came  on  board  to  present 


himself  to  me,  according  to  custom,  I refused  to 
see  him,  and  bade  Mr.  Q tell  him  why  and 
wherefore.  His  honour  took  it  very  coolly,  and 
retired  to  the  top  of  the  wharf,  with  a big  stick 
and  a whittling  knife,  with  which  he  worked  so 
lustily  (staring  at  the  closed  door  of  our  cabin 
all  the  time)  that  long  before  the  boat  left  the 
big  stick  was  no  bigger  than  a cribbage  peg  ! 

“ I never  in  my  life  was  in  such  a state  of 
excitement  as  coming  from  Buffalo  here,  this 
morning.  You  come  by  railroad  ; and  are  nigh 
two  hours  upon  the  way.  I looked  out  for  the 
spray,  and  listened  for  the  roar,  as  far  beyond 
the  bounds  of  possibility,  as  though,  landing  in 
Liverpool,  I were  to  listen  for  the  music  of  your 
pleasant  voice  in  Lincoln’s-inn-fields.  At  last, 
when  the  train  stopped,  I saw  two  great  white 
clouds  rising  up  from  the  depths  of  the  earth — 
nothing  more.  They  rose  up  slowly,  gently, 
majestically,  into  the  air.  I dragged  Kate  down 
a deep  and  slippery  path  leading  to  the  ferry 
boat ; bullied  Anne  for  not  coming  fast  enough; 
perspired  at  every  pore ; and  felt,  it  is  impos- 
sible to  say  how,  as  the  sound  grew  louder  and 
louder  in  my  ears,  and  yet  nothing  could  be 
seen  for  the  mist. 

“ There  were  two  English  officers  with  us  (ah  ! 
what  gentlemen,  what  noblemen  of  nature  they 
seemed),  and  they  hurried  off  with  me ; leaving 
Kate  and  Anne  on  a crag  of  ice ; and  clambered 
after  me  over  the  rocks  at  the  foot  of  the  small 
Fall,  while  the  ferryman  was  getting  the  boat 
ready.  I was  not  disappointed — but  I could 
make  out  nothing.  In  an  instant,  I was  blinded 
by  the  spray,  and  wet  to  the  skin.  I saw  the 
water  tearing  madly  down  from  some  immense 
height,  but  could  get  no  idea  of  shape,  or  situa- 
tion, or  anything  but  vague  immensity.  But 
when  we  were  seated  in  the  boat,  and  crossing 
at  the  very  foot  of  the  cataract — then  I began  to 
feel  what  it  was.  Directly  I had  changed  my 
clothes  at  the  inn  I w'ent  out  again,  taking  Kate 
with  me ; and  hurried  to  the  Horse-shoe-fall.  I 
went  down  alone,  into  the  very  basin.  It  would 
be  hard  for  a man  to  stand  nearer  God  than  he 
does  there.  There  was  a bright  rainbow  at  my 
feet;  and  from  that  I looked  up  to — great 
Heaven  ! to  what  a fall  of  bright  green  water  ! 
The  broad,  deep,  mighty  stream  seems  to  die  in 
the  act  of  falling;  and,  from  its  unfathomable 
grave,  arises  that  tremendous  ghost  of  spray  and 
mist  which  is  never  laid,  and  has  been  haunting 
this  place  with  the  same  dread  solemnity — per- 
haps from  the  creation  of  the  world. 

“ We  purpose  remaining  here  a week.  In  my 
next,  I will  try  to  give  you  some  idea  of  my 
impressions,  and  to  tell  you  how  they  change 


NIAGARA  AND  MONTREAL. 


Tinth  every  day.  At  present  it  is  impossible.  I 
can  only  say  that  the  first  effect  of  this  tremen- 
dous spectacle  on  me,  was  peace  of  mind — 
tranquillity — great  thoughts  of  eternal  rest  and 
hapjhness — nothing  of  terror.  1 can  shudder  at 
the  recollection  of  Glencoe  (dear  friend,  with 
Heaven’s  leave  we  must  see  Glencoe  together), 
but  whenever  I think  of  Niagara,  I shall  think 
of  its  beauty. 

“ If  you  could  hear  the  roar  that  is  in  my 
ears  as  I write  this.  Both  Falls  are  under  our 
windows.  From  our  sitting-room  and  bed-room 
we  look  down  straight  upon  them.  There  is 
not  a soul  in  the  house  but  ourselves.  What 
would  I give  if  you  and  Mac  were  here,  to  share 
the  sensations  of  this  time  ! I was  going  to 
add,  what  would  I give  if  the  dear  girl  whose 
ashes  lie  in  Ken  sal-green,  had  lived  to  come  so 
far  along  with  us — but  she  has  been  here  many 
times,  1 doubt  not,  since  her  sweet  face  fadetl 
from  my  earthly  sight. 

“ One  word  on  the  precious  letters  before  I 
close.  You  are  right,  my  dear  fellow,  about  the 
papers ; and  you  are  right  (I  grieve  to  say) 
about  the  people.  Am  1 right  1 quoth  the  con- 
juror. Yes!  from  gallery,  pit,  and  boxes.  I 
■did  let  out  those  things,  at  first  against  my  will, 
but  when  I come  to  tell  you  all — well;  only 
wait — only  wait — till  the  end  of  July.  I say  no 
more. 

“I  do  perceive  a perplexingly  divided  and 
subdivided  duty,  in  the  matter  of  the  book  of 
travels.  Oh  ! the  sublimated  essence  of  comi- 
cality that  I mdd  distil,  from  the  materials  I 
have  ! ....  You  are  a part,  and  an  essential 
part,  of  our  home,  dear  friend,  and  I exhaust 
my  imagination  in  picturing  the  circumstances 
under  which  I shall  surprise  you  by  walking 
into  58,  Lincoln’s-inn-fields.  We  are  truly 
grateful  to  God  for  the  health  and  happiness  of 
Gur  inexpressibly  dear  children  and  all  our 

■friends.  But  one  letter  more — only  one 

I don’t  seem  to  have  been  half  affectionate 
enough,  but  there  are  thoughts,  you  know,  that 
lie  too  deep  for  words.” 


VII. 

NIAGARA  AND  MONTREAL. 

1842. 

My  friend  was  better  than  .his  word,  and 
two  more  letters  reached  me  before  his 
return.  The  opening  of  the  first  was  written 
from  Niagara  on  the  third,  and  its  close  from 


Montreal  on  the  twelfth,  of  May ; from  which 
latter  city  also,  on  the  26th  of  that  month,  the 
last  -of  all  was  written. 

Much  of  the  first  of  these  letters  had  refer- 
ence to  the  international  copyright  agitation, 
and  gave  strong  expression  to  the  indignation 
awakened  in  him  (nor  less  in  some  of  the  best 
men  of  America)  by  the  adoption,  at  a public 
meeting  in  Boston  itself,  of  a memorial  against 
any  change  of  the  law,  in  the  course  of  which  it 
was  stated,  that,  if  English  authors  were  invested 
with  control  over  the  republication  of  their  own 
books,  it  would  be  no  longer  possible  for  Ame- 
rican editors  to  alter  and  adapt  them  to  the 
American  taste.  This  deliberate  declaration 
however,  unsparing  as  Dickens’s  anger  at  it  was, 
in  effect  vanquished  him.  He  saw  the  hope- 
lessness of  persevering  in  any  present  effort  to 
bring  about  the  change  desired  ; and  he  took 
the  determination,  not  only  to  drop  any  allusion 
to  it  in  his  proposed  book,  but  to  try  what  effect 
might  be  produced,  when  he  should  again  be 
in  England,  by  a league  of  English  authors  to 
suspend  further  intercourse  with  American  pub- 
lishers while  the  law  should  remain  as  it  is.  On 
his  return  he  made  accordingly  a public  appeal 
to  this  effect,  stating  his  own  intention  for  the 
future  to  forego  all  profit  derivable  from  the 
authorized  transmission  of  early  proofs  across 
the  Atlantic;  but  his  hopes  in  this  particular 
also  were  doomed  to  disappointment.  I now 
leave  the  subject,  quoting  only  from  his  present 
letter  the  general  remarks  with  which  it  is  dis- 
missed by  himself. 

“Niagara  Falls. 

“ Tuesday,  Third  May,  1842. 

“ I’ll  tell  you  what  the  two  obstacles  to  the 
passing  of  an  international  copyright  law  with 
England,  are  : firstly,  the  national  love  of  ‘ do- 
ing ’ a man  in  any  bargain  or  matter  of  business  ; 
secondly,  the  national  vanity.  Both  these 
characteristics  prevail  to  an  extent  which  no 
stranger  can  possibly  estimate. 

“ With  regard  to  the  first,  I seriously  believe 
that  it  is  an  essential  part  of  the  pleasure  de- 
rived from  the  perusal  of  a popular  English 
book,  that  the  author  gets  nothing  for  it.  It  is 
so  dar-nation  ’cute — so  knowing  in  Jonathan  to 
get  his  reading  on  those  terms.  He  has  the 
Englishman  so  regularly  on  the  hip  that  his  eye 
twinkles  with  slyness,  cunning,  and  delight ; 
and  he  chuckles  over  the  humour  of  the  page 
with  an  appreciation  of  it,  quite  inconsistent 
with,  and  apart  from,  its  honest  purchase. 
The  raven  hasn’t  more  joy  in  eating  a stolen 
piece  of  meat,  than  the  American  has  in 


THE  LIFE  OF  C//AFLES  DICICENS. 


reading  the  English  book  which  he  gets  for 
nothing. 

“ With  regard  to  the  second,  it  reconciles  that 
better  and  more  elevated  class  who  are  above 
this  sort  of  satisfaction,  with  surprising  ease. 
The  man’s  read  ’in  America  ! The  Americans 
like  him  ! They  are  glad  to  see  him  when  he 
comes  here!  They  flock  about  him,  and  tell 
him  that  they  are  grateful  to  him  for  spirits  in 
sickness ; for  many  hours  of  delight  in  health ; 
for  a hundred  fanciful  associations  which  are 
constantly  interchanged  between  themselves  and 
their  wives  and  children  at  home  ! It  is  nothing 
that  all  this  takes  place  in  countries  where  he  is 
paid:  it  is  nothing  that  he  has  won  fame  for 
himself  elsewhere,  and  profit  too.  The  Ameri- 
cans read  him ; the  free,  enlightened,  inde- 
pendent Americans  and  what  more  would  he 
have?  Here’s  reward  enough  for  any  man. 
The  national  vanity  swallows  up  all  other  coun- 
tries on  the  face  of  the  earth,  and  leaves  but 
this  above  the  ocean.  Now,  mark  what  the 
real  value  of  this  American  reading  is.  Find 
me  in  the  whole  range  of  literature  one  single 
solitary  English  book  which  becomes  popular 
with  them,  before  it  has  forced  itself  on  their 
attention  by  going  through  the  ordeal  at  home 
and  becoming  popular  there — and  I am  content 
that  the  law  should  remain  as  it  is,  for  ever  and 
a day.  I must  make  one  exception.  There  are 
some  mawkish  tales  of  fashionable  life  before 
which  crowds  fall  down  as  they  were  gilded 
calves,  which  at  home  have  been  snugly  en- 
shrined in  circulating  libraries  from  the  date  of 
tlieir  publication. 

“As  to  telling  them  they  will  have  no  litera- 
ture of  their  own,  the  universal  answer  (out  of 
Boston)  is,  ‘ We  don’t  want  one.  Wliy  should 
we  pay  for  one  when  we  can  get  it  for  nothing  ? 
Our  people  don’t  think  of  poetry,  sir.  Dollars, 
banks,  and  cotton  are  our  books,  sir.’  And 
they  certainly  are  in  one  sense ; for  a lower 
average  of  general  information  than  exists  in 
this  country  on  all  other  topics,  it  would  be 
very  hard  to  find.  So  much,  at  present,  for 
international  copyright.” 

The  same  letter  kept  the  promise  made  in  its 
predecessor  that  one  or  two  more  sketches  of 
character  should  be  sent.  “ One  of  the  most 
amusing  phrases  in  use  all  through  the  country, 
for  its  constant  repetition,  and  adaptation  to 
every  emergency,  is  ‘ Yes,  Sir.’  Let  me  give 
you  a specimen.”  (The  specimen  was  the  dia- 
logue, in  the  Notes,  of  straw-hat  and  brown-hat, 
during  the  stage-coach  ride  to  Sandusky.)  “ I 
am  not  joking,  upon  my  word.  This  is  exactly 
the  dialogue.  Nothing  else  occurring  to  me  at 


this  moment,  let  me  give  you  the  secretary’s 
portrait.  Shall  I ? 

“ He  is  of  a sentimental  turn — strongly  senti- 
mental ; and  tells  Anne  as  June  approaches 
that  he  hopes  ‘we  shall  sometimes  think  of 
him  ’ in  our  own  country.  He  wears  a cloak, 
like  Hamlet ; and  a very  tall,  big,  limp,  dusty 
black  hat,  which  he  exchanges  on  long  journeys 

for  a cap  like  Harlequin’s He  sings ; and 

in  some  of  our  quarters,  when  his  bedroom  has 
been  near  ours,  we  have  heard  him  grunting 
bass  notes  through  the  keyhole  of  his  door,  to 
attract  our  attention.  His  desire  that  1 should 
formally  ask  him  to  sing,  and  his  devices  to 
make  me  do  so,  are  irresistibly  absurd.  There 
was  a piano  in  our  room  at  Hartford  (you  recol- 
lect our  being  there,  early  in  February?) — and 
he  asked  me  one  night,  when  we  were  aloire,  if 
‘ Mrs.  D ’ played.  ‘ Yes,  Mr.  Q.’  ‘ Oh  indeed 

Sir ! / sing : so  whenever  you  want  a little 

soothing — ’ You  may  imagine  how  hastily  I 
left  the  room,  on  some  false  pretence,  without 
hearing  more. 

“ He  paints An  enormous  box  of  oil 

colours  is  the  main  part  of  his  luggage  : and 
with  these  he  blazes  away,  in  his  own  room,  for 
hours  together.  Anne  got  hold  of  some  big- 
headed pot-bellied  sketches  he  made  of  the 
passengers  on  board  the  canal-boat  (including 
me  in  my  fur-coat),  the  recollection  of  which 
brings  the  tears  into  my  eyes  at  this  minute. 
He  painted  the  Falls,  at  Niagara,  superbly; 
and  is  supposed  now  to  be  engaged  on  a full- 
length  representation  of  me : waiters  having 
reported  that  chamber-maids  have  said  that 
there  is  a picture  in  his  room  which  has  a great 
deal  of  hair.  One  girl  opined  that  it  was  ‘ the 
beginning  of  the  King’s-arms  ; ’ but  I am  pretty 
sure  the  Lion  is  myself.  .... 

“ Sometimes,  but  not  often,  he  commences  a 
conversation.  That  usually  occurs  when  we 
are  walking  the  deck  after  dark  ; or  when  we 
are  alone  together  in  a coach.  It  is  his  practice 
at  such  times  to  relate  the  most  notorious  and 
patriarchal  Joe  Miller,  as  something  that  oc- 
curred in  his  own  family.  When  travelling  by 
coach,  he  is  particularly  fond  of  imitating  cows 
and  pigs ; and  nearly  challenged  a fellow  pas- 
senger the  other  day,  who  had  been  moved  by 
the  display  of  this  accomplishment  into  telling 
him  that  he  was  ‘ a perfect  calf.’  He  thinks  it 
an  indispensable  act  of  politeness  and  attention 
to  empiire  constantly  whether  we’re  not  sleepy, 
or,  to  use  his  own  words,  whether  wc  don’t 
‘ suffer  for  sleep.’  If  we  have  taken  a long  naj) 
of  fourteen  hours  or  so,  after  a long  journey,  he 
is  sure  to  meet  me  at  the  bedroom  door  when  I 


NIAGARA  AND  MONTREAL. 


j turn  out  in  the  morning,  with  this  enquiry.  But 
I apart  from  the  amusement  he  gives  us,  I could 
I not  by  possibility  have  lighted  on  any  one  who 
! would  have  suited  my  purpose  so  well.  I have 
raised  his  ten  dollars  per  month  to  twenty ; and 
mean  to  make  it  up  for  six  months.” 

The  conclusion  of  this  letter  was  dated  from 
“Montreal,  Thursday,  twelfth  May;”  and  was 
little  more  than  an  eager  yearning  for  home. 
“ This  will  be  a very  short  and  stupid  letter,  my 
dear  friend ; for  the  post  leaves  here  much 
earlier  than  I expected,  and  all  my  grand  de- 
signs for  being  unusually  brilliant  fall  to  the 
ground.  I will  write  you  one  Ime  by  the  next 
Cunard  boat — reserving  all  else  until  our  happy 
and  long  long  looked-for  meeting. 

“ We  have  been  to  Toronto,  and  Kingston  ; 
experiencing  attentions  at  each  which  I should 
have  difficulty  in  describing.  The  wild  and 
rabid  toryism  of  Toronto,  is,  I speak  seriously, 
appalling.  English  kindness  is  very  different 
from  American.  People  send  their  horses  and 
carriages  for  your  use,  but  they  don’t  exact  as 
payment  the  right  of  being  always  under  your 
nose.  We  had  no  less  than  five  carriages  at 
Kingston  waiting  our  pleasure  at  one  time; 
not  to  mention  the  commodore’s  barge  and 
crew,  and  a beautiful  government  steamer. 
We  dined  with  Sir  Charles  Bagot  last  Sunday. 
Lord  Mulgrave  was  to  have  met  us  yesterday 
at  Lachine ; but  as  he  was  wind-bound  in  his 
yacht  and  couldn’t  get  in.  Sir  Richard  Jackson 
sent  his  drag  four-in-hand,  with  two  other  young 
fellows  who  are  also  his  aides,  and  in  we  came 
in  grand  style. 

“The  Theatricals  (I  think  I told  you*  I 
had  been  invited  to  play  with  the  officers  of 
the  Coldstream  guards  here)  are,  A Roland 
for  an  Oliver ; Two  o'clock  m the  Morning; 
and  either  the  Young  Widow,  or  Deaf  as  a 
Fast.  Ladies  (unprofessional)  are  going  to 
play,  for  the  first  time.  I wrote  to  Mitchell 
at  New  York  for  a wig  for  Mr.  Snobbington, 
which  has  arrived,  and  is  brilliant.  If  they  had 
done  Love,  Law,  and  Pliysick,  as  at  first  pro- 
posed, I was  already  ‘ up  ’ in  Flexible,  having 
played  it  of  old,  before  my  authorship  days ; 
but  if  it  should  be  Splash  in  the  Young  Widow, 
you  will  have  to  do  me  the  favor  to  imagine 
me  in  a smart  livery  coat,  shiny  black  hat  and 
cockade,  white  knee-cords,  white  top-boots, 
blue  stock,  small  whip,  red  cheeks  and  dark 
eyebrows.  Conceive  Topping’s  state  of  mind 
if  I bring  this  dress  home  and  put  it  on  un- 
expectedly ! . . . . God  bless  you,  dear  friend. 
I can  say  nothing  about  the  seventh,  the  day 
See  ante,  p.  87. 


123 


on  which  we  sail.  It  is  impossible.  Words 
cannot  express  what  we  feel  now  that  the  time 
is  so  near ” 

His  last  letter,  dated  from  “ Peasco’s  Hotel, 
Montreal,  Canada,  twenty-sixth  of  May,”  de- 
scribed the  private  theatricals,  and  enclosed  me 
a bill  of  the  play. 

“ This,  like  my  last,  will  be  a stupid  letter, 
because  both  Kate  and  I are  thrown  into  such  a 
state  of  excitement  by  the  near  approach  of  the 
seventh  of  June,  that  we  can  do  nothing,  and 
think  of  nothing. 

“ The  play  came  off  last  night.  The  audience, 
between  five  and  six  hundred  strong,  were  in- 
vited as  to  a party ; a regular  table  with  refresh- 
ments being  spread  in  the  lobby  and  saloon. 
We  had  the  band  of  the  twenty-third  (one  of 
the  finest  in  the  service)  in  the  orchestra,  the 
theatre  was  lighted  with  gas,  the  scenery  was 
excellent,  and  the  properties  were  all  brought 
from  private  houses.  Sir  Charles  Bagot,  Sir 
Richard  Jackson,  and  their  staffs  were  present; 
and  as  the  military  portion  of  the  audience  were 
all  in  full  uniform,  it  was  really  a splendid  scene. 

“ We  ‘ went  ’ also  splendidly ; though  with  no- 
thing very  remarkable  in  the  acting  way.  We 
had  for  Sir  Mark  Chase  a genuine  odd  fish,  with 
plenty  of  humour ; but  our  Tristram  Sappy  was 
not  up  to  the  marvellous  reputation  he  has  some- 
how or  other  acquired  here.  I am  not,  how- 
ever, let  me  tell  you,  placarded  as  a stage- 
manager  for  nothing.  Everybody  was  told  they 
would  have  to  submit  to  the  most  iron  despotism ; 
and  didn’t  I come  Macready  over  them  ? Oh, 
no.  By  no  means.  Certainly  not.  The  pains 
I have  taken  with  them,  and  the  perspiration  I 
have  expended,  during  the  last  ten  days,  exceed 
in  amount  anything  you  can  imagine.  I had 
regular  plots  of  the  scenerj'  made  out,  and  lists 
of  the  properties  wanted ; and  had  them  nailed 
up  by  the  prompter’s  chair.  Every  letter  that 
was  to  be  delivered  was  written ; every  piece  of 
money  that  had  to  be  given,  provided ; and  not 
a single  thing  lost  sight  of.  I prompted,  myself, 
when  I was  not  on ; when  I was,  I made  the 
regular  prompter  of  the  theatre  my  deputy ; and 
I never  saw  anything  so  perfectly  touch  and  go, 
as  the  first  two  pieces.  The  bedroom  scene  in 
the  interlude  was  as  well  furnished  as  Vestris  had 
it ; with  a ‘ practicable  ’ fireplace  blazing  away 
like  mad,  and  everything  in  a concatenation 
accordingly.  I really  do  believe  that  I was  very 
funny : at  least  I know  that  I laughed  heartily 
at  myself,  and  made  the  part  a character,  such 

as  you  and  I know  very  well:  a mixture  of  T , 

Harley,  Yates,  Keeley,  and  Jerry  Sneak.  It 
went  with  a roar,  all  through ; and,  as  I am 


1 24 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


closing  this,  they  have  told  me  I was  so  well 
made  up  that  Sir  Charles  Bagot,  who  sat  in  the 
stage-box,  had  no  idea  who  played  Mr.  Snob- 
bington,  until  the  piece  was  over. 

“ But  only  think  of  Kate  playing  ! and  playing 
devilish  well,  I assure  you  ! All  the  ladies  were 
capital,  and  we  had  no  wait  or  hitch  for  an  instant. 
You  may  suppose  this,  when  I tell  you  that  we 
began  at  eight,  and  had  the  curtain  down  at 


eleven.  It  is  their  custom  here,  to  prevent 
heartburnings  in  a very  heartburning  town, 
whenever  they  have  played  in  private,  to  re- 
peat the  performances  in  public.  So,  on 
Saturday  (substituting,  of  course,  real  actresses 
for  the  ladies),  we  repeat  the  two  first  pieces  to 
a paying  audience,  for  the  manager’s  benefit.  . . . 

“ I send  "ou  a bill,  to  which  I have  appended 
a key. 


^n'bate  ^/ftcatricals. 


COMMITTEE. 

Mrs.  TORRENS.  I Mrs.  PERRY. 

W.  C.  ERMATINGER,  Esq.  | Captain  TORRENS. 

TilE  EARL  OF  MULGRAVE. 


STAGE  MANAGER— MR.  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

QUEEN’S  THEATRE,  MONTREAL. 

ON  WEDNESDAY  EVENING,  MAY  25th,  1842, 


WILL  BE  PEUFORMED, 


A ROLAND  FOR 


MRS.  SELEORNE.  _ 

MARIA  DARLINGTON. - 
MRS.  FIXTURE.  


MR.  SELEORNE. 

ALFRED  HIGHFLYER. 
SIR  MARK  CHASE.  — 

FIXTURE.  

GAMEKEEPER.  — 


AN  OLIVER. 


AFTCR  WUICn,  AN  INTERLUDE  IN  ONE  SCENE,  (FROM  THE  FRENCU,)  CALLED 

®1h0  a€Mx  m Purning. 

THE  STRANGER. 

MR.  SNOBBINGTON. ^ X/.  c 

TO  CONCLUDE  WITH  THE  FARCE,  IN  ONE  ACT,  ENTITLED 

BE&P  AS  _A  POST. 

X//  %IAJL4XJ  .tlHstm 

cXi^JUj  


MRS.  ELUMPLEY. 
AMY  TEMPLETON. 
SOEHY  WALTON.  - 
SALLY  MAGGS.  — 

CAPTAIN  TEMPLETON. 

MR.  WALTON.  

TRISTRAM  SAPPY.  

CRUPPER.  

GALLOP. 


— C»iAHuA/ii  ^UZ€4ruj>Aj6%f. 

— 'h^T, 


Montreal,  May  24,  1842. 


GAZETTE  OFFICE. 


I have  not  told  yon  half  enough.  But  I 
promise  you  I shall  make  you  shake  your  sides 


about  this  play.  Wasn’t  it  worthy  of  Crummies 
that  when  Lord  Mulgravc  and  I went  out  to  the 


AMERICAN  NOTES. 


125 


iloor  to  receive  the  Governor-general,  the  regular 
])rompter  followed  us  in  agony  with  four  tall 
candlesticks  with  wax  candles  in  them,  and 
besought  us  with  a bleeding  heart  to  carry  two 
apiece,  in  accordance  with  all  the  precedents?. . . . 

“ I have  hardly  spoken  of  our  letters,  which 
reached  us  yesterday,  shortly  before  the  play 
began.  A hundred  thousand  thanks  for  your 
delightful  mainsail  of  that  gallant  little  packet. 
I read  it  again  and  again ; and  had  it  all  over 
again  at  breakfast  time  this  morning.  I heard 
also,  by  the  same  ship,  from  Talfourd,  Miss 
Coutts,  Brougham,  Rogers,  and  others.  A deli- 
cious letter  from  Mac  too,  as  good  as  his  paint- 
ing, I swear.  Give  my  hearty  love  to  him 

God  bless  you,  my  dear  friend.  As  the  time 
draws  nearer,  we  get  fevered  with  anxiety  for 

home Kiss  our  darlings  for  us.  We 

shall  soon  meet,  please  God,  and  be  happier 
and  merrier  than  ever  we  were,  in  all  our  lives. 
....  Oh  home — home — home — home — home 
—home— HOME  !!!!!!!!!!!” 


VIII. 

AMERICAN  NOTES. 

1842. 

HE  reality  did  not  fall  short  of  the 
anticipation  of  home.  His  return 
was  the  occasion  of  unbounded  en- 
joyment; and  what  he  had  planned 
before  sailing  as  the  way  we  should 
meet,  received  literal  fulfilment.  By  the 
sound  of  his  cheery  voice  I first  knew  that 
he  was  come ; and  from  my  house  we 
went  together  to  Maclise,  also  “ without  a mo- 
ment’s warning.”  A Greenwich  dinner  in  which 
several  friends  (Talfourd,  Milnes,  Proctor,  Mac- 
lise, Stanfield,  Marryat,  Barham,  Hood,  and 
Cruikshank  among  them)  took  part,  and  other 
immediate  greetings,  followed ; but  the  most 
special  celebration  was  reserved  for  autumn, 
when,  by  way  of  challenge  to  what  he  had  seen 
while  abroad,  a home -journey  was  arranged 
with  Stanfield,  Maclise,  and  myself  for  his  com- 
panions, into  such  of  the  most  striking  scenes  of 
a picturesque  English  county  as  the  majority  of 
us  might  not  before  have  visited  ; Cornwall  being 
ultimately  chosen. 

Before  our  departure  he  was  occupied  by  his 
preparation  of  the  American  Notes ; and  to  the 
same  interval  belongs  the  arrival  in  London  of 
Mr.  Longfellow,  who  became  his  guest,  and  (for 
both  of  us  I am  privileged  to  add)  our  attached 


friend.  Longfellow’s  name  was  not  then  the 
familiar  word  it  has  since  been  in  England ; but 
he  had  already  written  several  of  his  most  feli- 
citous pieces,  and  he  possessed  all  the  qualities 
of  delightful  companionship,  the  culture  and  the 
charm,  which  have  no  higher  type  than  the 
accomplished  and  genial  American.  Lie  re- 
minded me,  when  lately  again  in  England,  of 
two  experiences  out  of  many  we  had  enjoyed 
together  this  quarter  of  a century  before.  One 
of  them  was  a day  at  Rochester,  when,  met  by 
one  of  those  prohibitions  which  are  the  wonder 
of  visitors  and  the  shame  of  Englishmen,  we 
overleapt  gates  and  barriers,  and,  setting  at  de- 
fiance repeated  threats  of  all  the  terrors  of  law 
coarsely  expressed  to  us  by  the  custodian  of  the 
place,  explored  minutely  the  castle  ruins.  The 
other  was  a night  among  those  portions  of  the 
population  which  outrage  law  and  defy  its  terrors 
all  the  days  of  their  lives,  the  tramps  and  thieves 
of  London ; when,  under  guidance  and  protec- 
tion of  the  most  trusted  officers  of  the  two  great 
metropolitan  prisons  afforded  to  us  by  Mr.  Ches- 
terton and  Lieut.  Tracy,  we  went  over  the  worst 
haunts  of  the  most  dangerous  classes.  Nor  will 
it  be  unworthy  of  remark,  in  proof  that  attention 
is  not  drawn  vainly  to  such  scenes,  that,  upon 
Dickens  going  over  them  a dozen  years  later 
when  he  wrote  a paper  about  them  for  his  House- 
hold Words,  he  found  important  changes  effected 
whereby  these  human  dens,  if  not  less  dangerous, 
were  become  certainly  more  decent.  On  the 
night  of  our  earlier  visit,  Maclise,  who  accom- 
panied us,  was  struck  with  such  sickness  on 
entering  the  first  of  the  Mint  lodging-houses  in 
the  borough,  that  he  had  to  remain,  for  the  time 
we  were  in  them,  under  guardianship  of  the 
police  outside.  Longfellow  returned  home  by 
the  Great  Western  from  Bristol  on  the  21st  of 
October,  enjoying  as  he  passed  through  Bath 
the  hospitality  of  Landor ; and  at  the  end  of  the 
following  week  we  started  on  our  Cornish  travel. 

But  what  before  this  had  occupied  Dickens 
in  the  writing  way  must  now  be  told.  Not  long 
after  his  reappearance  amongst  us,  his  house 
being  still  in  the  occupation  of  Sir  John  Wilson, 
he  went  to  Broadstairs,  taking  with  him  the 
letters  from  which  I have  quoted  so  largely  to 
help  him  in  preparing  his  American  Notes ; and 
one  of  his  first  announcements  to  me  (i8th  of 
July)  shows  not  only  this  labour  in  progress,  but 
the  story  he  was  under  engagement  to  begin  in 
November  working  in  his  mind.  “The  subjects 
at  the  beginning  of  the  book  are  of  that  kind 
that  I can’t  dash  at  them,  and  now  and  then  they 
fret  me  in  consequence.  When  I come  to  Wash- 
ington, I am  all  right.  The  solitary  prison  at 


126  the  life  of  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Philadelphia,  is  a good  subject,  though  ; I for- 
got that  for  the  moment.  Have  you  seen  the 
Poston  chapter  yet  ? ....  I have  never  been 
in  Cornwall  either.  A mine  certainly ; and  a 
letter  for  that  purpose  shall  be  got  from  South- 
wood  Smith.  I have  some  notion  of  opening 
the  new  book  in  the  lantern  of  a lighthouse  ! ” 
A letter  a couple  of  months  later  (i6th  of  Sept.) 
recurs  to  that  proposed  opening  of  his  story 
which  after  all  he  laid  aside ; and  shows  how 
rapidly  he  was  getting  his  A7ncrican  Notes  into 
shape.  “•  At  the  Isle  of  Thanet  races  yesterday 
I saw — oh  ! who  shall  say  what  an  immense 
amount  of  character  in  the  way  of  inconceivable 
villainy  and  blackguardism  ! I even  got  some 
new  wrinkles  in  the  way  of  showmen,  conjurors, 
pea-and-thimblers,  and  trampers  generally.  I 
think  of  opening  my  new  book  on  the  coast  of 
Cornwall,  in  some  terrible  dreary  iron-bound 
spot.  I hope  to  have  finished  the  American 
book  before  the  end  of  next  month  ; and  we 
will  then  together  fly  down  into  that  desolate 
region.”  Our  friends  having  Academy  engage- 
ments to  detain  them,  we  had  to  delay  a little  ; 
and  I meanwhile  turn  back  to  his  letters  to  ob- 
serve his  progress  with  his  Notes,  and  other 
employments  or  enjoyments  of  the  interval. 
They  require  no  illustration  that  they  will  not 
themselves  supply : but  I may  remark  that  the 
then  collected  Poe?ns  of  Tennyson  had  become 
very  favourite  reading  with  him ; and  that  while 
in  America  Mr.  Mitchell  the  comedian  had 
given  him  a small  white  shaggy  terrier,  who  bore 
at  first  the  imposing  name  of  Timber  Doodle, 
and  became  a domestic  pet  and  companion. 

“I  have  been  reading”  (yth  of  August)  “Ten- 
nyson all  this  morning  on  the  seashore.  Among 
other  trifling  effects,  the  waters  have  dried  up 
as  they  did  of  old,  and  shown  me  all  the  mermen 
and  mermaids,  at  the  bottom  of  the  ocean ; 
together  with  millions  of  queer  creatures,  half- 
fish and  half-fungus,  looking  down  into  all  manner 
of  coral  caves  and  seaweed  conservatories ; and 
staring  in  with  their  great  dull  eyes  at  every 
ojren  nook  and  loophole.  Who  else,  too,  could 
conjure  up  such  a close  to  the  extraordinary  and 
as  Landor  would  say  ‘ most  wonderful  ’ series  of 
pictures  in  the  ‘ dream  of  fair  women,’  as — 

Squadrons  and  squares  of  men  in  brazen  plates, 
Scaffolds,  still  sheets  of  water,  divers  woes. 

Ranges  of  glimmering  vaults  with  iron  grates. 

And  hushed  seraglios  ! ” 

I am  getting  on  pretty  well,  but  it  was  so  glitter- 
ing and  sunshiny  yesterday  that  I was  forced  to 
make  holiday.”  Four  days  later ; “ I have  not 
written  a word  this  blessed  day.  I got  to  New 
York  yesterday,  and  think  it  goes  as  it  should. 


. . . . Little  doggy  improves  rapidly,  and  now 
jumps  over  my  stick  at  the  word  of  command. 
I have  changed  his  name  to  Snittle  Timbery,  as 
more  sonorous  and  expressive.  He  unites  with 
the  rest  of  the  family  in  cordial  regards  and 
loves.  Nota  Bene.  The  Margate  theatre  is 
open  every  evening,  and  the  four  Patagonians 
(see  Goldsmith’s  Essays)  are  performing  thrice  a 

week  at  Ranelagh ” 

A visit  from  me  was  at  this  time  due,  to  which 
these  were  held  out  as  inducements  ; and  there 
followed  what  it  was  supposed  I could  not  re- 
sist, a transformation  into  the  broadest  farce  of 
a deep  tragedy  by  a dear  friend  of  ours.  “ Now 
you  really  must  come.  Seeing  only  is  believing, 
very  often  isn’t  that,  and  even  Being  the  thing 
falls  a long  way  short  of  believing  it.  Mrs. 
Nickleby  herself  once  asked  me,  as  you  know, 
if  I really  believed  there  ever  was  such  a 
woman ; but  there’ll  be  no  more  belief,  either  in 
me  or  my  descriptions,  after  what  I have  to  tell 
of  our  excellent  friend’s  tragedy,  if  you  don’t 
come  and  have  it  played  again  for  yourself  ‘ by 
particular  desire.’  We  saw  it  last  night,  and  oh  ! 
if  you  had  but  been  with  us ! Young  Betty, 
doing  what  the  mind  of  man  without  my  helj) 
never  can  conceive,  with  his  legs  like  padded 
boot-trees  wrapped  up  in  faded  yellow  drawers, 
was  the  hero.  The  comic  man  of  the  company 
enveloped  in  a white  sheet,  with  his  head  tied 
with  red  tape  like  a brief  and  greeted  with  yells 
of  laughter  whenever  he  appeared,  was  the  vene- 
rable priest.  A poor  toothless  old  idiot  at  whom 
the  very  gallery  roared  with  contempt  when  he 
was  called  a tyrant,  was  the  remorseless  and 
aged  Creon.  And  Ismene  being  arrayed  in 
spangled  muslin  trowsers  very  loose  in  the  legs 
and  very  tight  in  the  ankles  such  as  Fatima 
would  wear  in  Blue  Beard,  was  at  her  appearance 
immediately  called  upon  for  a song.  After  this 

can  you  longer ? ” 

With  the  opening  of  September  I had  renewed 
report  of  his  book,  and  of  other  matters.  “ The 
Philadelphia  chapter  I think  very  good,  but  I 
am  sorry  to  say  it  has  not  made  as  much  in  print 

as  I hoped In  America  they  have  forged 

a letter  with  my  signature,  which  they  coolly 
declare  appeared  in  the  C/i>'oniclc  w\i\\  the  copy- 
right circular ; and  in  which  I express  myself  in 
such  terms  as  you  may  imagine,  in  reference  to 
the  dinners  and  so  forth.  It  has  been  widely 
distributed  all  over  the  States ; and  the  felon 
who  invented  it  is  a ‘ smart  man  ’ of  course. 
You  are  to  understand  that  it  is  not  done  as  a 
joke,  and  is  scurrilously  reviewed.  Mr.  Park 
Benjamin  begins  a lucubration  upon  it  with 
these  capitals,  Dickens  is  a Fool,  and  a Liar. 


AMERICAN  NOTES.  1 2 7 


....  I have  a new  protdg<5,  in  the  person  of  a 
wretched  deaf  and  dumb  boy  whom  I found 
: upon  the  sands  the  other  day,  half  dead,  and 

^ have  got  (for  the  irresent)  into  the  union  infir- 
mary at  Minster.  A most  deplorable  case.” 

On  the  14th  he  told  me : “ I have  pleased 
myself  very  much  to-day  in  the  matter  of  Nia- 
gara. I have  made  the  description  very  brief 
(as  it  should  be),  but  I fancy  it  is  good.  I am 
beginning  to  think  over  the  introductory  chapter, 
and  it  has  meanwhile  occurred  to  me  that  I 
should  like,  at  the  beginning  of  the  volumes,  to 
put  what  follows  on  a blank  page.  I dedicate 
this  Book  to  those  friends  of  mine  in  America, 
who,  loving  their  country,  can  bear  the  truth,  when 
it  is  written  good  humouredly  and  in  a kind  spirit. 
What  do,  you  think  ? Do  you  see  any  objection  ?” 
My  reply  is  to  be  inferred  from  what  he  sent 
back  on  the  20th.  “ I don’t  quite  see  my  way 

towards  an  expression  in  the  dedication  of  any 
feeling  in  reference  to  the  American  reception. 
Of  course  I have  always  intended  to  glance  at 
it,  gratefully,  in  th;e  end  of  the  book ; and  it  will 
have  its  place  in  the  introductory  chapter,  if 
we  decide  for  that.  Would  it  do  to  put  in, 
after  ‘ friends  in  America,’  who  giving  me  a wel- 
cotne  I must  ever  gratefully  and  proudly  remember, 
left  my  judgment  free,  and  who,  loving,  &c.  If 
so,  so  be  it.” 

Before  the  end  of  the  month  he  wrote  : “ For 
the  last  two  or  three  days  I have  been  rather 
slack  in  point  of  work ; not  being  in  the  vein. 
To-day  I had  not  written  twenty  lines  before 
I rushed  out  (the  weather  being  gorgeous)  to 
bathe.  And  when  I have  done  that,  it  is  all 
up  with  me  in  the  way  of  authorship  until  to- 
morrow. The  little  dog  is  in  the  highest  spirits  ; 
and  jumps,  as  Mr.  Ken  wigs  would  say,  perpe- 
tivally.  I have  had  letters  by  the  Britannia  from 
Felton,  Prescott,  Mr.  Q.  and  others,  all  very 
earnest  and  kind.  I think  you  will  like  what  I 
have  written  on  the  poor  emigrants  and  their 
ways  as  I literally  and  truly  saw  them  on  the 
boat  from  Quebec  to  Montreal.” 

This  was  a passage,  which,  besides  being  in 
itself  as  attractive  as  any  in  his  writings,  gives 
such  perfect  expression  to  a feeling  that  under- 
lies them  all  that  I subjoin  it  in  a note,*  On 

* “ Cant  as  we  may,  and  as  we  shall  to  the  end  of  all 
things,  it  is  very  much  harder  for  the  poor  to  be  virtuous 
than  it  is  for  the  rich ; and  the  good  that  is  in  them  shines 
the  brighter  for  it.  In  many  a noble  mansion  lives  a 
man,  the  best  of  husbands  and  of  fathers,  whose  private 
worth  in  both  capacities  is  justly  lauded  to  the  skies. 
But  bring  him  here,  upon  this  crowded  deck.  .Strip  from 
his  fair  young  wife  her  silken  dress  and  jewels,  unbind 
her  braided  hair,  stamp  early  wrinkles  on  her  brow, 
pinch  her  pale  cheek  with  care  and  much  privation,  array 
her  faded  form  in  coarsely  patched  attire,  let  there  be 


board  this  Canadian  steamboat  he  encountered 
crowds  of  poor  emigrants  and  their  children ; 
and  such  was  their  patient  kindness  and  cheer- 
ful endurance,  in  circumstances  where  the  easy- 
living  rich  could  hardly  fail  to  be  monsters  of 
impatience  and  selfishness,  that  it  suggested  to 
him  a reflection  than  which  it  was  not  possible 
to  have  written  anything  more  worthy  of  ob- 
servation, or  more  absolutely  true.  Jeremy 
Taylor  has  the  same  philosophy  in  his  lesson 
on  opportunities,  but  here  it  was  beautified  by 
the  example  with  all  its  fine  touches.  It  made 
us  read  Rich  and  Poor  by  new  translation. 

The  printers  were  now  hard  at  work,  and  in 
the  last  week  of  September  he  wrote  : “ I send 


you  proofs  as  far  as  Niagara I am  rather 

holiday-making  this  week  ....  taking  principal 


part  in  a regatta  here  yesterday,  very  pretty  and 
gay  indeed.  We  think  of  coming  up  in  time  for 
Macready’s  opening,  when  perhaps  you  will  give 
us  a chop  ; and  of  course  you  and  Mac  will  dine 
with  us  the  next  day?  I shall  leave  nothing  of 
the  book  to  do  after  coming  home,  please  God, 
but  the  two  chapters  on  slavery  and  the  people 
which  I could  manage  easily  in  a week,  if  need 

were The  policeman  who  supposed  the 

Duke  of  Brunswick  to  be  one  of  the  swell  mob, 
ought  instantly  to  be  made  an  inspector.  The 

nothing  but  his  love  to  set  her  forth  or  deck  her  out,  and 
you  shall  put  it  to  the  proof  indeed.  So  change  his  sta- 
tion in  the  world  that  he  shall  see,  in  those  young  things 
who  climb  about  his  knee,  not  records  of  his  wealth  and 
name,  but  little  wrestlers  with  him  for  his  daily  bread  ; so 
many  poachers  on  his  scanty  meal ; so  many  units  to 
divide  his  every  sum  of  comfort,  and  farther  to  reduce  its 
small  amount.  In  lieu  of  the  endearments  of  childhood 
in  its  sweetest  aspect,  heap  upon  him  all  its  pains  and 
wants,  its  sicknesses  and  ills,  its  fretfulness,  caprice,  and 
querulous  endurance  ; let  its  prattle  be,  not  of  engaging 
infant  fancies,  but  of  cold,  and  thirst,  and  hunger : and 
if  his  fatherly  affection  outlive  all  this,  and  he  be  patient, 
watchful,  tender ; careful  of  his  children’s  lives,  and  mind- 
ful always  of  their  joys  and  sorrows  ; then  send  him  back 
to  parliament,  and  pulpit,  and  to  quarter  sessions,  and 
when  he  hears  fine  talk  of  the  depravity  of  those  who 
live  from  hand  to  mouth,  and  labour  hard  to  do  it,  let 
him  speak  up,  as  one  who  knows,  and  tell  those  holders- 
forth  that  they,  by  parallel  with  such  a class,  should  be 
high  angels  in  their  daily  lives,  and  lay  but  humble  siege 

to  heaven  at  last Which  of  us  shall  say  what  he 

would  be,  if  such  realities,  with  small  relief  or  change  all 
through  his  days,  were  his  ! Looking  round  upon  these 
people  : far  from  home,  houseless,  indigent,  wandering, 
weary  with  travel  and  hard  living ; and  seeing  how 
patiently  they  nursed  and  tended  their  young  children : 
how  they  consulted  ever  their  wants  first,  then  half  sup- 
plied their  own ; what  gentle  ministers  of  hope  and  faith  the 
women  were ; how  the  men  profited  by  their  example  ; and 
howvery,very  seldom  even  a moment’s  petulance  or  harsh 
complaint  broke  out  among  them  : I felt  a stronger  love 
and  honour  of  my  kind  come  glowing  on  my  heart,  and 
wished  to  God  there  had  been  many  atheists  in  the  better 
part  of  human  nature  there,  to  read  this  simple  lesson  in, 
the  book  of  life.” 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICI^ENS. 


suspicion  reflects  the  highest  credit  (I  seriously 
think)  on  his  penetration  and  judgment.”  Three 
days  later  ; “ For  the  last  two  days  we  have  had 
gales  blowing  from  the  north-east,  and  seas  roll- 
ing on  us  that  drown  the  pier.  To-day  it  is 
tremendous.  Such  a sea  was  never  known  here 
at  this  season,  and  it  is  running  in  at  this  mo- 
ment in  waves  of  twelve  feet  high.  You  would 
hardly  know  the  place.  But  we  shall  be  punctual 
to  your  dinner  hour  on  Saturday.  If  the  wind 
should  hold  in  the  same  quarter,  we  may  be  j 


obliged  to  come  up  by  land ; and  in  that  case  I 
should  start  the  caravan  at  six  in  the  morning. 
....  What  do  you  think  of  this  for  mv  title — 
Amefican  Notes  for  General  Circulation)  and  of 
this  motto  ? 

“ In  reply  to  a question  from  the  Bench,  tlie  Solicitor 
for  the  Bank  observed,  that  this  kind  of  notes  circulated 
the  most  extensively,  in  those  parts  of  the  world  wheie 
they  were  stolen  and  forged.— Bailey  Report.”  i. 

The  motto  was  omitted,  objection  being  made 
to  it ; and  on  the  last  day  of  the  month  I had  the 


VISIT  TO  A TRAMPS’  LODGING-HOUSE. 


last  of  his  letters  during  this  Broadstairs  visit. 
“Strange  as  it  may  appear  to  you”  (25th  of 
September),  “the  sea  is  running  so  high  that  we 
have  no  choice  but  to  return  by  land.  No 
■steamer  can  come  out  of  Ramsgate,  and  the 
Margate  boat  lay  out  all  night  on  Wednesday 
with  all  her  passengers  on  board.  You  may  be 
sure  of  us  therefore  on  Saturday  at  5,  for  I have 
determined  to  leave  here  to-morrow,  as  we  could 
not  otherwise  manage  it  in  lime ; and  have  en- 


gaged an  omnibus  to  bring  the  whole  caravan 

by  the  overland  route ^\'e  cannot  open 

a window,  or  a door  ; legs  are  of  no  use  on  the 
terrace ; and  the  Margate  boats  can  only  take 
people  aboard  at  Herne  Bay  ! ” He  brought 
with  him  all  that  remained  to  be  done  of  his 
second  volume  except  the  last  two  chapters,  in- 
cluding that  to  which  he  has  referred  as  “ intro- 
ductory;” and  on  the  following  Wednesday  (5th 
of  October)  he  told  me  that  the  first  of  these  was 


AMERICAN  NOTES. 


clone.  “ 1 want  you  very  much  to  come  and 
(line  to-day  that  we  may  repair  to  Drury-lane 
together;  and  let  us  say  half-past  four,  or  there 
is  no  time  to  be  comfortable.  I am  going  out 
to  Tottenham  this  morning,  on  a cheerless 
mission  I would  willingly  have  avoided.  Hone, 
of  the  Every  Day  Book,  is  dying;  and  sent 
Cruikshank  yesterday  to  beg  me  to  go  and  see 
him,  as,  having  read  no  books  but  mine  of  late, 
he  wanted  to  see  and  shake  hands  with  me 
before  (as  George  said)  ‘ he  went.’  There  is  no 
help  for  it,  of  course ; so  to  Tottenham  I repair, 
this  morning.  I worked  all  day,  and  till  mid- 
night ; and  finished  the  slavery  chapter  yester- 
day.” The  cheerless  visit  had  its  mournful 
sequel  before  the  next  month  closed,  when  he  went 
with  the  same  companion  to  poor  Hone’s  funeral. 

On  the  loth  of  October  I heard  from  him 
that  the  chapter  intended  to  be  introductory  to 
the  Notes  was  written,  and  waiting  our  conference 
whether  or  not  it  should  be  printed.  We  decided 
against  it;  on  his  part  so  reluctantly,  that  I had 
to  undertake  for  its  publication  when  a more 
fitting  time  should  come.  This  in  my  judgment 
has  arrived,  and  the  chapter  first  sees  the  light 
on  this  page.  There  is  no  danger  at  present,  as 
there  would  have  been  when  it  was  written,  that 
its  proper  self-assertion  should  be  mistaken  for 
an  apprehension  of  hostile  judgments  which  he 
was  anxious  to  deprecate  or  avoid.  He  is  out 
of  reach  of  all  that  now ; and  reveals  to  us  here, 
as  one  whom  fear  or  censure  can  touch  no  more, 
his  honest  purpose  in  the  use  of  satire  even  where 
his  humorous  temptations  were  strongest.  What 
he  says  will  on  other  grounds  also  be  read  with 
unusual  interest,  for  it  will  be  found  to  connect 
itself  impressively  not  with  his  first  experiences 
only,  but  with  his  second  visit  to  America  at 
the  close  of  his  life.  He  held  always  the  same 
high  opinion  of  what  was  best  in  that  country, 
and  always  the  same  contempt  for  what  was 
worst  in  it. 

“ INTRODUCTORY,  AND  NECESSARY  TO  BE 
READ. 

“ I have  placed  the  foregoing  title  at  the  head 
of  this  page,  because  I challenge  and  deny  the 
right  of  any  person  to  pass  judgment  on  this 
book,  or  to  arrive  at  any  reasonable  conclusion 
in  reference  to  it,  without  first  being  at  the 
trouble  of  becoming  acquainted  with  its  design 
and  purpose. 

“ It  is  not  statistical.  Figures  of  arithmetic 
have  already  been  heaped  upon  America’s  de- 
voted head,  almost  as  lavishly  as  figures  of  speech 
have  been  piled  above  Shakespeare’s  grave. 

“ It  comprehends  no  small  talk  -concerning 


ii'9 

individuals,  and  no  violation  of  the  social  confi- 
dences of  private  life.  The  very  prevalent  prac- 
tice of  kidnapping  live  ladies  and  gentlemen, 
forcing  them  into  cabinets,  and  labelling  and 
ticketing  them  whether  they  will  or  no,  for  the 
gratification  of  the  idle  and  the  curious,  is  not  to- 
my  taste.  Therefore  I have  avoided  it. 

“ It  has  not  a grain  of  any  political  ingredient 
in  its  whole  composition. 

“ Neither  does  it  contain,  nor  have  I intended, 
that  it  should  contain,  any  lengthened  and  mi- 
nute account  of  my  personal  reception  in  the- 
United  States ; not  because  I am,  or  ever  was, 
insensible  to  that  spontaneous  effusion  of  affec- 
tion and  generosity  of  heart,  in  a most  affec- 
tionate and  generous-hearted  people  ; but  be- 
cause I conceive  that  it  would  ill  become  me  to 
flourish  matter  necessarily  involving  so  much  of 
my  own  praises,  in  the  eyes  of  my  unhappy  readers. 

“ This  book  is  simply  what  it  claims  to  be — a 
record  of  the  impressions  I received  from  day 
to  day,  during  my  hasty  travels  in  America,  and 
sometimes  (but  not  always)  of  the  conclusions  to 
which  they,  and  after-reflection  on  them,  have 
led  me  ; a description  of  the  country  I passed 
through  ; of  the  institutions  I visited  ; of  the  kind 
of  people  among  whom  I journeyed  ; and  of  the 
manners  and  customs  that  came  within  my  ob- 
servation. Very  many  works  having  just  the 
same  scope  and  range,  have  been  already  pub- 
lished, but  I think  that  these  two  volumes  stand 
in  need  of  no  apology  on  that  account.  The 
interest  of  such  productions,  if  they  have  any, 
lies  in  the  varying  impressions  made  by  the  same 
novel  things  on  different  minds ; and  not  in  new 
discoveries  or  extraordinary  adventures. 

“ I can  scarcely  be  supposed  to  be  ignorant 
of  the  hazard  I run  in  writing  of  America  at  all. 
I know  perfectly  well  that  there  is,  in  that  coun- 
try, a numerous  class  of  well-intentioned  persons 
prone  to  be  dissatisfied  with  all  accounts  of  the 
Republic  whose  citizens  they  are,  which  are  not 
couched  in  terms  of  exalted  and  extravagant 
praise.  I know  perfectly  well  that  there  is  in 
America,  as  in  most  other  places  laid  dowm  in 
maps  of  the  great  world,  a numerous  class  of 
persons  so  tenderly  and  delicately  constituted, 
that  they  cannot  bear  the  truth' in  any  form. 
And  I do  not  need  the  gift  of  prophecy  to  dis- 
cern afar  off,  that  they  who  will  be  aptest  to 
detect  malice,  ill-will,  and  all  uncharitableness 
in  these  pages,  and  to  show,  beyond  any  doubt, 
that  they  are  perfectly  inconsistent  with  that 
grateful  and  enduring  recollection  which  I pro- 
fess to  entertain  of  the  welcome  I found  awaiting 
me  beyond  the  Atlantic — will  be  certain  native 
journalists,  veracious  and  gentlemanly,  who  were 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


150 


at  great  jjains  to  prove  to  me,  on  all  occasions 
during  my  stay  there,  that  the  aforesaid  welcome 
was  utterly  worthless. 

“ But,  venturing  to  dissent  even  from  these 
high  authorities,  I formed  my  own  opinion  of  its 
value  in  the  outset,  and  retain  it  to  this  hour ; 
and  in  asserting  (as  I invariably  did  on  all  public 
occasions)  my  liberty  and  freedom  of  speech 
while  I was  among  the  Americans,  and  in  main- 
taining it  at  home,  I believe  that  I best  show  my 
sense  of  the  high  worth  of  that  welcome,  and  of 
the  honourable  singleness  of  purpose  with  which 
it  was  extended  to  me.  From  first  to  last  I saw, 
in  the  friends  who  crowded  round  me  in  Ame- 
rica, old  readers,  over-grateful  and  over-partial 
perhaps,  to  whom  I had  happily  been  the  means 
of  furnishing  pleasure  and  entertainment ; not  a 
vulgar  herd  who  would  flatter  and  cajole  a 
stranger  into  turning  with  closed  eyes  from  all 
the  blemishes  of  the  nation,  and  into  chaunting 
its  praises  with  the  discrimination  of  a street 
ballad-singer.  From  first  to  last  I saw,  in  those 
hospitable  hands,  a home-made  wreath  of  laurel ; 
and  not  an  iron  muzzle  disguised  beneath  a 
flower  or  two. 

“ Therefore  I take — and  hold  myself  not  only 
justified  in  taking,  but  bound  to  take — the  plain 
course  of  saying  what  I think,  and  noting  what 
I saw ; and  as  it  is  not  my  custom  to  exalt  what 
in  my  judgment  are  foibles  and  abuses  at  home, 
so  I have  no  intention  of  softening  down,  or 
glozing  over,  those  that  I have  observed  abroad. 

“ If  this  book  should  fall  into  the  hands  of  any 
sensitive  American  who  cannot  bear  to  be  told 
that  the  working  of  the  institutions  of  his  country 
is  far  from  perfect ; that  in  spite  of  the  advantage 
she  has  over  all  other  nations  in  the  elastic 
freshness  and  vigour  of  her  youth,  she  is  far 
from  being  a model  for  the  earth  to  copy ; and 
that  even  in  those  pictures  of  the  national  man- 
ners with  which  he  quarrels  most,  there  is  still 
(after  the  lapse  of  several  years,  each  of  which  may 
be  fairly  supposed  to  have  had  its  stride  in  im- 
provement) much  that  is  just  and  true  at  this 
hour  ; let  him  lay  it  down,  now,  for  I shall  not 
please  him.  Of  the  intelligent,  reflecting,  and 
educated  among  his  countrymen,  I have  no  fear ; 
for  I have  ample  reason  to  believe,  after  many 
delightful  conversations  not  easily  to  be  forgot- 
ten, that  there  are  very  few  topics  (if  any)  on 
which  their  sentiments  differ  materially  from  mine. 

“I  may  be  asked — ‘ If  you  have  been  in  any 
respect  disappointed  in  America,  and  are  assured 
beforehand  that  the  expression  of  your  disap- 
pointment will  give  offence  to  any  class,  why  (lo 
you  write  at  all  ? ’ My  answer  is,  that  I went 
tliere  expecting, greater  things  than  1 found,  and 


resolved  as  far  as  in  me  lay  to  do  justice  to  the 
country,  at  the  expense  of  any  (in  my  view)  { 
mistaken  or  prejudiced  statements  that  might  ; 
have  been  made  to  its  disparagement.  Coming 
home  with  a corrected  and  sobered  judgment,  I 
consider  myself  no  less  bound  to  do  justice  to 
what,  according  to  my  best  means  of  judgment, 

I found  to  be  the  truth.” 

Of  the  book  for  whose  opening  page  this 
matter  introductory  was  written  it  will  be  enough 
merely  to  add  that  it  appeared  on  the  i8th  of 
October  ; that  before  the  close  of  the  year  four 
large  editions  had  been  sold ; and  that  in  my  ; 
opinion  it  thoroughly  deserved  the  estimate  j 
formed  of  it  by  one  connected  with  America  by  ^ 
the  strongest  social  affections,  and  otherwise  in 
all  respects  an  honourable,  high-minded,  upright 
judge.  “ You  have  been  very  tender,”  wrote  | 
Lord  Jeffrey,  “ to  our  sensitive  friends  beyond 
sea,  and  my  whole  heart  goes  along  with  every 
word  you  have  written.  I think  that  you  have 
perfectly  accomplished  all  that  you  profess  or 
undertake  to  do,  and  that  the  world  has  never 
yet  seen  a more  faithful,  graphic,  amusing,  kind- 
hearted  narrative.” 


I permit  myself  so  far  to  anticipate  a later 
page  as  to  print  here  a brief  extract  from  one  of 
the  letters  of  the  last  American  visit.  Without 
impairing  the  interest  with  which  the  narrative 
of  that  time  will  be  read  in  its  proper  place,  I 
shall  thus  indicate  the  extent  to  which  present 
impressions  were  modified^  by  the  experience  of 
twenty-six  years  later.  " He  is  writing  from 
Philadelphia  on  the  fourteenth  of  January,  1868. 

“ I see  great  cJumges  for  the  better,  socially. 
Politically,  no.  England  governed  by  the  Mary- 
lebone  vestry  and  the  penny  papers,  and  Eng- 
land as  she  would  be  after  years  of  such  govern- 
ing; is  what  I make  of  that.  Socially,  the 
change  in  manners  is  remarkable,  d'here  is 
much  greater  politeness  and  forbearance  in  all 

ways On  the  other  hand  there  arc  still 

provincial  oddities  wonderfully  quizzical ; and 
the  newspapers  are  constantly  expressing  the 
popular  amazement  at  ‘ Mr.  Dickens’s  extraor- 
dinary composure.’  They  seem  to  take  it  ill  that 
I don’t  stagger  on  to  the  platform  overpowered 
by  the  spectacle  before  me,  and  the  national  1 
greatness.  They  are  all  so  accustomed  to  do 
public  things  with  a flourish  of  trumpets,  that 
the  notion  of  my  coming  in-  to  read  without 
somebody  first  flying  up  and  delivering  an 
‘ Oration  ’ about  me,  and  flying  down  again  and 
leading  me  in,  is  so  very  unaccountable  to  them, 
that  sometimes  they  have  no  idea  until  I open 
my  lips  that  it  can  possibly  be  Charles  Dickens.” 


FIRST  YEAR  OF  MARTIN  CIIUZZLEWIT 


131 


BOOK  FOURTH.— LONDON  AND  GENOA. 
1843—1845.  Nt.  31—33- 


I.  P'iRST  Ykar  of  Martin  Chuzzlf.wit. 

II.  Chuzzlkwit  Disappointments  and  Christmas 
Carol.  ^ 

III.  Year  of  Departure  for  Italy. 


IV.  Idleness  at  Ai.baro  ; Villa  Bagnerello. 

V.  Work  in  Geno.a  : Palazzo  Peschiere. 

VI.  Italian  Travel. 

VII.  Last  Months  in  Italy. 


I. 


FIRST  YEAR  OF  MARTIN  CIIUZZLEWIT. 


1843- 


HE  Cornish  trip  had  come  off,  mean- 
while, with  such  unexpected  and 
continued  attraction  for  us  that  we 
were  well  into  the  third  week  of 
absence  before  we  turned  our  faces 
homeward.  Railways  helped  us  then  not 
much ; but  where  the  roads  were  inacces- 
sible to  post-horses,  we  walked.  Tintagel 
was  visited,  and  no  part  of  mountain  or  sea  con- 
secrated by  the  legends  of  Arthur  was  left  un- 
explored. We  ascended  to  the  cradle  of  the 
highest  tower  of  Mount  St.  Michael,  and  de- 
scended into  several  mines.  Land  and  sea 
yielded  each  its  marvels  to  us ; but  of  all  the 
impressions  brought  away,  of  which  some  after- 
wards took  forms  as  lasting  as  they  could  re- 
ceive from  the  most  delightful  art,  I doubt  if 
any  were  the  source  of  such  deep  emotion  to 
us  all  as  a sunset  we  saw  at  Land’s-end.  Stan- 
field knew  the  wonders  of  the  Continent,  the 
glories  of  Ireland  were  native  to  Maclise,  I was 
familiar  from  boyhood  with  border  and  Scottish 
scenery,  and  Dickens  was  fresh  from  Niagara  ; 
but  there  was  something  in  the  sinking  of  the 
sun  behind  the  Atlantic  that  autumn  afternoon, 
as  we  viewed  it  together  from  the  top  of  the  rock 
projecting  farthest  into  the  sea,  which  each  in 
his  turn  declared  to  have  no  parallel  in  memory. 

But  with  the  varied  and  overflowing  gladness 
of  those  three  memorable  weeks  it  would  be 
unworthy  now  to  associate  only  the  saddened 
recollection  of  the  sole  survivor.  “ Blessed  star 
of  morning ! ” wrote  Dickens  to  Felton  while 
yet  the  glow  of  its  enjoyment  was  upon  him. 

Such  a trip  as  we  had  into  Cornwall  just  after 
Longfellow  went  away ! . . . . Sometimes  we 
travelled  all  night,  sometimes  all  day,  sometimes 

both Heavens  ! If  you  could  have  seen 

the  necks  of  bottles,  distracting  in  their  immense 
varieties  of  shape,  peering  out  of  the  carriage 
pockets  ! If  you  could  have  witnessed  the  deep 
devotion  of  the  postboys,  the  wild  attachment 


of  the  hostlers,  the  maniac  glee  of  the  waiters  ! 

If  you  could  have  followed  us  into  the  earthy 
old  churches  we  visited,  and  into  the  strange 
caverns  on  the  gloomy  sea-shore,  and  down  into 
the  depths  of  mines,  and  up  to  the  tops  of  giddy 
heights  where  the  unspeakably  green  water  was 
roaring,  I don’t  know  how  many  hundred  feet 
below ! If  you  could  have  seen  but  one  gleam 
of  the  bright  fires  by  which  we  sat  in  the  big 
rooms  of  the  ancient  inns  at  night,  until  long 

after  the  small  hours  had  come  and  gone 

I never  laughed  in  my  life  as  I did  on  this  jour- 
ney. It  would  have  done  you  good  to  hear  me. 

I was  choking  and  gasping  and  bursting  the 
buckle  off  the  back  of  my  stock,  all  the  way. 
And  Stanfield  got  into  such  apoplectic  entangle- 
ments that  we  were  often  obliged  to  beat  him 
on  the  back  with  portmanteaus  before  we  could 
recover  him.  Seriously,  I do  believe  there  never 
was  such  a trip.  And  they  made  such  sketches, 
those  two  men,  in  the  most  romantic  of  our 
halting-places,  that  you  would  have  sworn  we 
had  the  Spirit  of  Beauty  with  us,  as  well  as 
the  Spirit  of  Fun.” 

The  Logan  Stone,  by  Stanfield,  was  one  of 
them  ; and  it  laughingly  sketched  both  the  charm 
of  what  was  seen,  and  the  mirth  of  what  was 
done,  for  it  perched  me  on  the  top  of  the  stone. 

It  is  historical,  however,  the  ascent  having  been 
made ; and  of  this  and  other  examples  of  steadi- 
ness at  heights  which  deterred  the  rest,  as  well 
as  of  a subject  suggested  for  a painting  of  which 
Dickens  became  the  unknown  purchaser,  Maclise 
reminded  me  in  some  pleasant  allusions  many 
years  later,  which,  notwithstanding  their  tribute 
to  my  athletic  achievements,  the  good-natured 
reader  must  forgive  my  printing.  They  com- 
plete the  little  picture  of  our  trip.  Something 
I had  written  to  him  of  recent  travel  among 
the  mountain  scenery  of  the  wilder  coasts  of 
Donegal  had  touched  the  chord  of  these  old 
remembrances.  “As  to  your  clambering,”  he 
replied,  “ don’t  I know  what  happened  of  old  ? ' 
Don’t  I still  see  the  Logan  Stone,  and  you  perched  | 
on  the  giddy  top,  while  we,  rocking  it  on  its  1 
pivot,  shrank  from  all  that  lay  concealed  below  ! 
Should  I ever  have  blundered  on  the  waterfall 


132 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


of  St.  Wighton,  if  you  had  not  piloted  the  way  ? 
And  when  we  got  to  Land’s-end,  with  the  green 
sea  far  under  us  lapping  into  solitary  rocky  nooks 
where  the  mermaids  live,  who  but  you  only  had 
the  courage  to  stretch  over,  to  see  those  dia- 
mond jets  of  brightness  that  I swore  then,  and 
believe  still,  were  the  flappings  of  their  tails  ! 
xVnd  don’t  I recall  you  again,  sitting  on  the  tip- 
top stone  of  the  cradle-turret  over  the  highest 
battlement  of  the  castle  of  St.  Michael’s  Mount, 
with  not  a ledge  or  coigne  of  vantage  ’twixt  you 
and  the  fathomless  ocean  under  you,  distant 
three  thousand  feet.?  Last,  do  I forget  you 
clambering  up  the  goat-path  to  King  Arthur’s 
castle  of  Tintagel,  when,  in  my  vain  wish  to  fol- 
low, I grovelled  and  clung  to  the  soil  like  a 
Caliban,  and  you,  in  the  manner  of  a tricksy 
spirit  and  stout  Ariel,  actually  danced  up  and 
down  before  me  ! ” 

The  waterfall  I led  him  to  was  among  the 
records  of  the  famous  holiday,  celebrated  also 
by  Thackeray  in  one  of  his  pen-and-ink  pleasan- 
tries, which  were  sent  by  both  painters  to  the 
ne.xt  year’s  Academy ; and  so  eager  was  Dickens 
to  possess  this  landscape  by  Maclise  which  in- 
cluded the  likeness  of  a member  of  his  family, 
yet  so  anxious  that  our  friend  should  be  spared 
the  sacrifice  which  he  knew  would  follow  an 
avowal  of  his  wish,  that  he  bought  it  under  a 
feigned  name  before  the  Academy  opened,  and 
steadily  refused  to  take  back  the  money  which 
on  discovery  of  the  artifice  Maclise  pressed  upon 
him.  Our  friend,  who  already  had  munificently 
given  him  a charming  drawing  of  his  four  children 
to  accompany  him  and  his  wife  to  America,  had 
his  generous  way  nevertheless  ; and  as  a volun- 
tary offering  four  years  later,  painted  Mrs. 
Dickens  on  a canvas  the  same  size  as  the  picture 
of  her  husband  in  1839. 

“ Behold  finally,  the  title  of  the  new  book,” 
was  the  first  note  I had  from  Dickens  (12th  of 
November)  after  our  return;  “ don’t  lose  it,  for 
I have  no  copy.”  Title  and  even  story  had 
been  undetermined  while  we  travelled,  from  the 
lingering  wish  he  still  had  to  begin  it  among 
those  Cornish  scenes ; but  this  intention  had 
now  been  finally  abandoned,  and  the  reader  lost 
nothing  by  his  substitution,  for  the  lighthouse 
or  mine  in  Cornwall,  of  the  Wiltshire-village 
forge  on  the  windy  autumn  evening  which  opens 
the  tale  of  Martin  Cliuzzlcwit.  Into  that  name 
he  finally  settled,  but  only  after  much  delibera- 
tion, as  a mention  of  Ins  changes  will  show. 
Martin  was  the  prefix  to  all,  but  the  surname 
varied  from  its  first  form  of  Sweezleden,  Sweczle- 
back,  and  Sweezlewag,  to  those  of  Chuzzletoe, 
Chuzzleboy,  Chubblewig,  and  Chuzzlewig;  nor 


was  Chuzzlewit  chosen  at  last  until  after  more- 
hesitation  and  discussion.  What  he  had  sent 
me  in  his  letter  as  finally  adopted,  ran  thus: 
“The  I.ife  and  Adventures  of  Martin  Chuzzlewig,. 
his  family,  friends,  and  enemies.  Comprising 
all  his  wills  and  his  ways.  With  an  historical 
record  of  what  he  did  and  what  he  didn’t.  The 
whole  forming  a complete  key  to  the  house  of 
Chuzzlewig.”  All  which  latter  portion  of  the 
title  was  of  course  dropped  as  the  work  became 
modified,  in  its  progress,  by  changes  at  first  not  j 
contemplated  ; but  as  early  as  the  third  number  ^ 
he  drew  up  the  plan  of  “ old  Martin’s  plot  to  | 
degrade  and  punish  Pecksniff,”  and  the  diffi-  i 
culties  he  encountered  in  departing  from  other- 
portions  of  his  scheme  were  such  as  to  render 
him,  in  his  subsequent  stories,  more  bent  upon 
constructive  care  at  the  outset,  and  on  adherence 
as  far  as  might  be  to  any  design  he  had  formed.. 

The  first  number,  which  appeared  in  January 
1843,  had  not  been  quite  finished  when  he  wrote 
to  me  on  the  8th  of  December  ; “ The  Chuzzle- 
wit copy  makes  so  much  more  than  I supposed, 
that  the  number  is  nearly  done.  Thank  God  f” 
Beginning  so  hurriedly  as  at  last  he  did,  altering 
his  course  at  the  opening  and  seeing  little  as  yet 
of  the  main  track  of  his  design,  perhaps  no  story 
was  ever  begun  by  him  with  stronger  heart  or 
confidence.  Illness  kept  me  to  my  rooms  for 
some  days,  and  he  was  so  eager  to  try  the  effect 
of  Pecksniff  and  Pinch  that  he  came  down  with 
the  ink  hardly  dry  on  the  last  slip  to  read  the 
manuscript  to  me.  Well  did  Sydney  Smith,  on 
writing  to  say  how  very  much  the  number  had 
pleased  him,  foresee  the  promise  there  was  in 
those  characters.  “ Pecksniff  and  his  daughters,/ 
and  Pinch,  are  admirable— quite  first-rate  paint- 
ing, such  as  no  one  but  yourself  can  execute  ! ” 
And  let  me  here  at  once  remark  that  the  notion 
of  taking  Pecksniff  for  a type  of  character  was 
really  the  origin  of  the  book ; the  design  being 
to  show,  more  or  less  by  every  person  introduced, 
the  number  and  variety  of  humours  and  vices 
that  have  their  root  in  selfishness. 

Another  piece  of  his  writing  that  claims  men- 
tion at  the  close  of  1842  was  a prologue  con- 
tributed to  the  Patrician's  Daughter,  Mr.  West- 
land  Marston’s  first  dramatic  efiort,  which  had 
attracted  him  by  the  beauty  of  its  composition 
less  than  by  the  courage  with  which  its  subject 
had  been  chosen  from  the  actual  life  of  the  time. 

“ Not  light  its  import,  and  not  poor  its  inrcn  ; 

Yoursdves  the  actors,  and  your  homes  tlie  scene.” 

This  was  the  date,  too,  of  Mr.  Browning's 
tragedy  of  the  Blot  on  the  'Scutcheon,  which  I 
took  upon  myself,  after  reading  it  in  tlie  manu- 


F//^S7'  YEAR  OF  MARTIN  CHUZZLEWIT. 


script,  privately  to  impart  to  Dickens ; and  I 
was  not  mistaken  in  the  belief  that  it  would  pro- 
foundly touch  him.  “ Browning’s  play,”  he 
wrote  (25th  of  November),  ” has  thrown  me  into 
a perfect  passion  of  sorrow.  To  say  that  there 
is  anything  in  its  subject  save  what  is  lovely, 
true,  deeply  affecting,  full  of  the  best  emotion, 
the  most  earnest  feeling,  and  the  most  true  and 
tender  source  of  interest,  is  to  say  that  there  is 
no  light  in  the  sun,  and  no  heat  in  blood.  It 
is  full  of  genius,  natural  and  great  thoughts,  pro- 
found and  yet  simple  and  beautiful  in  its  vigour. 
I know  nothing  that  is  so  affecting,  nothing  in 
any  book  I have  ever  read,  as  Mildred’s  recur- 
rence to  that  ‘ I was  so  young— I had  no 
mother.’  I know  no  love  like  it,  no  passion  like 
it,  no  moulding  of  a splendid  thing  after  its  con- 
ception, like  it.  And  I swear  it  is  a tragedy 
that  MUST  be  played ; and  must  be  played, 
moreover,  by  Macready.  There  are  some 
things  I would  have  changed  if  I could  (they  are 
very  slight,  mostly  broken  lines) ; and  I assuredly 
would  have  the  old  servant  begin  his  tale  upon 
the  scene ; and  be  taken  by  the  throat,  or  drawn 
upon,  by  his  master,  in  its  commencement.  But 
the  tragedy  I never  shall  forget,  or  less  vividly 
remember  than  I do  now.  And  if  you  tell 
Browning  that  I have  seen  it,  tell  him  that  I 
believe  from  my  soul  there  is  no  man  living  (and 
not  many  dead)  who  could  produce  such  a work. 
— Macready  likes  the  altered  prologue  very 
much.”  ....  There  will  come  a more  con- 
venient time  to  speak  of  his  general  literary 
likings,  or  special  regard  for  contemporary 
books ; but  I will  say  now  that  nothing  interested 
him  more  than  successes  won  honestly  in  his 
own  field,  and  that  in  his  large  and  open  nature 
there  was  no  hiding-place  for  little  jealousies. 
An  instance  occurs  to  me  which  may  be  named 
at  once,  when,  many  years  after  the  present  date, 
he  called  my  attention  very  earnestly  to  two 
tales  then  in  course  of  publication  in  Blackwood' s 
Magazine,  and  afterwards  collected  under  the 
title  of  Scenes  of  Cladcal  Life.  “ Do  read  them,” 
he  wrote.  “They  are  the  best  things  I have 
seen  since  I began  my  course.” 

Eighteen  hundred  and  forty-three  opened  with 
the  most  vigorous  prosecution  of  his  Chuzzlewit 
labour.  “ 1 hope  the  number  will  be  very  good,” 
he  wrote  to  me  of  number  two  (8th  of  January). 
“ I have  been  hammering  away,  and  at  home  all 
day.  Ditto  yesterday ; except  for  two  hours  in 
the  afternoon,  when  I ploughed  through  snow 
half  a foot  deep,  round  about  the  wilds  of 
Willesden.”  For  the  present,  however,  I shall 
glance  only  briefly  from  time  to  time  at  his 
progress  with  the  earlier  portions  of  the  story  on 
Life  of  Charles  Dickens,  10. 


133 


which  he  was  thus  engaged  until  the  midsummer 
of  1844.  Disappointments  arose  in  connection 
with  it,  unexpected  and  strange,  which  had  im- 
portant influence  upon  him  : but  I reserve  the 
mention  of  these  for  awhile,  that  I may  speak 
of  the  leading  incidents  of  1843. 

“I  am  in  a difficulty,”  he  wrote  (12th  of 
February),  “ and  am  coming  down  to  you  some 
time  to-day  or  to-night.  I couldn’t  write  a line 
yesterday ; not  a word,  though  I really  tried 
hard.  In  a kind  of  despair  I started  off  at  half- 
past two  with  my  pair  of  petticoats  to  Rich- 
mond ; and  dined  there  ! ! Oh  what  a lovely 
day  it  was  in  those  parts.”  His  pair  of  petti- 
coats were  Mrs.  Dickens  and  her  sister  Georgina  : 
the  latter,  since  his  return  from  America,  having 
become  part  of  his  household,  of  which  she  re- 
mained a member  until  his  death ; and  he  had 
just  reason  to  be  proud  of  the  steadiness,  depth, 
and  devotion  of  her  friendship.  In  a note-book 
begun  by  him  in  January,  1855,  where  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life  he  jotted  down  hints  and 
fancies  proposed  to  be  made  available  in  future 
writings,  I find  a character  sketched  of  which 
the  most  part  was  applicable  to  his  sister-in-law, 
if  the  whole  was  not  suggested  by  her.  “ She — 
sacrificed  to  children,  and  sufficiently  rewarded. 
From  a child  herself,  always  ‘ the  children  ’ (of 
somebody  else)  to  engross  her.  And  so  it 
comes  to  pass  that  she  is  never  married ; never 
herself  has  a child ; is  always  devoted  ‘ to  the 
children  ’ (of  somebody  else) ; and  they  love 
her ; and  she  has  always  youth  dependent  on 
her  till  her  death — and  dies  quite  happily.”  Not 
many  days  after  that  holiday  at  Richmond,  a 
slight  unstudied  outline  in  pencil  was  made  by 
Maclise  of  the  three  who  formed  the  party  there, 
as  we  all  sat  together ; and  never  did  a touch  so 
light  carry  with  it  more  truth  of  observation. 
The  likenesses  of  all  are  excellent ; and  nothing 
ever  done  of  Dickens  himself  has  conveyed  more 
vividly  his  look  and  bearing  at  this  yet  youthful 
time.  He  is  in  his  most  pleasing  aspect ; flat- 
tered, perhaps ; but  nothing  that  is  known  to  me 
gives  a general  impression  so  lifelike  and  true 
of  the  then  frank,  eager,  handsome  face. 

It  was  a year  of  much  illness  with  me,  which 
had  ever  helpful  and  active  sympathy  from  him. 
“ Send  me  word  how  you  are,”  he  wrote,  two 
days  later.  “ But  not  so  much  for  that  I now 
write,  as  to  tell  you,  peremptorily,  that  I insist 
on  your  wrapping  yourself  up  and  coming  here 
in  a hackney-coach,  with  a big  portmanteau,  to- 
morrow. It  surely  is  better  to  be  unwell  with 
a Quick  and  Cheerful  (and  Co)  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, than  in  the  dreary  vastness  of  Lin- 
coln’s-inn-fields.  Here  is  the  snuggest  tent-bed- 

418 


134 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


stead  in  the  world,  and  there  you  are  with  the 
drawing-room  for  your  workshop,  the  Q and  C 
for  your  pal,  and  ‘everythink  in  a concatena- 
tion accordingly.’  I begin  to  have  hopes  of  the 
regeneration  of  mankind  after  the  reception  of 
Gregory  last  night,  though  I have  none  of  the 
Chronicle  for  not  denouncing  the  villain.  Have 
you  seen  the  note  touching  my  Notes  in  the  blue 
and  yellow  ? ” 

The  first  of  those  closing  allusions  was  to  the 
editor  of  the  infamous  Satirist  having  been 
hissed  from  the  Covent-garden  stage,  on  which 
he  had  presented  himself  in  the  character  of 
Hamlet;  and  I remember  with  what  infinite 
pleasure  I afterwards  heard  Chief  Justice  Tindal 
in  court,  charging  the  jury  in  an  action  brought 
by  this  malefactor,  and  referring  to  a publican 
of  St.  Giles’s  as  having  paid  men  to  take  part  in 
hissing  him,  avow  the  pride  felt  in  “living  in  the 
same  parish  with  a man  of  that  humble  station 
of  life,”  who  was  capable  of  paying  money  out 
of  his  pocket  to  punish  what  he  believed  to  be 
an  outrage  to  decency.  The  second  allusion 
was  to  a statement  of  the  reviewer  of  the  Ameri- 
can Notes  in  the  Edinburgh  to  the  effect,  that,  if 
he  had  been  rightly  informed,  Dickens  had  gone 
to  America  as  a kind  of  missionary  in  the  cause 
of  international  copyright ; to  which  a prompt 
contradiction  had  been  given  in  the  Times.  “ I 
deny  it,”  wrote  Dickens,  “ wholly.  He  is 
wrongly  informed ; and  reports,  without  enquiry, 
a piece  of  information  which  I could  only  cha- 
racterize by  using  one  of  the  shortest  and 
strongest  words  in  the  language.” 

The  disputes  that  had  arisen  out  of  his  work 
on  America,  I may  add,  stretched  over  great 
part  of  the  year.  It  will  quite  suffice,  however, 
to  say  here  that  the  ground  taken  by  him  in  his 
letters  written  on  the  spot,  and  printed  in  the 
present  volume,  which  in  all  the  more  material 
statements  his  book  invited  public  judgment 
upon  and  which  he  was  moved  to  reopen  in 
Chu2zlc7ait,  was  so  kept  by  him  against  all 
comers,  that  none  of  the  counter-statements  or 
arguments  dislodged  him  from  a square  inch  of 
it.  But  the  controversy  is  dead  now ; and  he 
took  occasion,  on  his  later  visit  to  America,  to 
write  its  epitaph. 

Though  I did  not,  to  revert  to  his  February 
letter,  obey  its  cordial  bidding  by  immediately 
taking  up  quarters  with  him,  I soon  after  joined 
him  at  a cottage  he  rented  in  Finchley;  and 
here,  walking  and  talking  in  the  green  lanes  as 
the  midsummer  months  were  coming  on,  his 
introduction  of  Mrs.  Gamp,  and  the  uses  to 
which  he  should  apply  that  remarkable  person- 
age, first  occurred  to  him.  In  his  preface  to 


the  book  he  speaks  of  her  as  a fair  representa- 
tion, at  the  time  it  was  published,  of  the  hired 
attendant  on  the  poor  in  sickness  : but  he  might 
have  added  that  the  rich  were  no  better  off,  for 
Mrs.  Gamp’s  original  was  in  reality  a person 
hired  by  a most  distinguished  friend  of  his  own, 
a lady,  to  take  charge  of  an  invalid  very  dear  to 
her ; and  the  common  habit  of  this  nurse  in  the 
sick  room,  among  other  Gampish  peculiarities, 
was  to  rub  her  nose  along  the  top  of  the  tall 
fender.  Whether  or  not,  on  that  first  mention 
of  her,  I had  any  doubts  whether  such  a charac- 
ter could  be  made  a central  figure  in  his  story, 
I do  not  now  remember ; but  if  there  were  any 
at  the  time,  they  did  not  outlive  the  contents  of 
the  packet  which  introduced  her  to  me  in  the 
flesh  a few  weeks  after  our  return.  “ Tell  me,” 
he  wrote  from  Yorkshire,  where  he  had  been 
meanwhile  passing  pleasant  holiday  with  a 
friend,  “ what  you  think  of  Mrs.  Gamp  ? You’ll 
not  find  it  easy  to  get  through  the  hundreds  of 
misprints  in  her  conversation,  but  I want  your 
opinion  at  once.  I think  you  know  already 
something  of  mine.  I mean  to  make  a mark 
with  her.”  The  same  letter  enclosed  me  a 
clever  and  pointed  parable  in  verse  which  he 
had  written  for  an  annual  edited  by  Lady  Bless- 
ington. 

* “I  have  heard,  as  you  have,  from  Lady  Blessington, 
for  whose  behoof  I have  this  morning  penned  the  lines  I 
send  you  herewith.  But  1 have  only  done  so  to  excuse 
myself,  for  I have  not  the  least  idea  of  their  suiting  her  ; 
and  I hope  she  will  send  them  back  to  you  for  the  ExA 
July,  1843.  The  lines  are  quite  worth  preserving. 

A WORD  IN  SEASON. 

They  have  a superstition  in  the  East, 

That  Allah,  written  on  a piece  of  paper, 

Is  better  unction  than  can  come  of  priest, 

Of  rolling  incense,  and  of  lighted  taper  : 

Holding,  that  any  scrap  which  bears  that  name 
In  any  characters  its  front  impress’d  on, 

Shall  help  the  finder  thro’  the  purging  flame, 

And  give  his  toasted  feet  a place  to  rest  on. 

Accordingly,  they  make  a mighty  fuss 

With  every  wretched  tract  and  fierce  oration, 

And  hoard  the  leaves — for  they  are  not,  like  us, 

A highly  civilized  and  thinking  nation  : 

And,  always  stooping  in  the  miry  ways 
To  look  for  matter  of  this  earthly  leaven, 

They  seldom,  in  their  dust-exploring  days, 

Have  any  leisure  to  look  up  to  Heaven. 

So  have  I known  a country  on  the  earth 
Where  darkness  sat  upon  the  living  waters, 

And  brutal  ignorance,  and  toil,  and  dearth 

Were  the  hard  portion  of  its  sons  and  daughters : 
And  yet,  where  they  who  should  have  oped  the  door 
Of  charity  and  light,  for  all  men’s  finding. 

Squabbled  for  words  upon  the  altar-floor, 

And  rent  The  Book,  in  struggles  for  the  binding. 

[The 


FIRST  YEAR  OF  MARTIN  CIIUZZLEWIT.  135 

Another  allusion  in  the  February  letter  re- 
minds me  of  the  interest  which  his  old  work  for 
the  Chronicle  gave  him  in  everything  affecting 
its  credit,  and  that  this  was  the  year  when  Mr. 
John  Black  ceased  to  be  the  editor,  in  circum- 
stances reviving  strongly  all  Dickens’s  sympa- 
thies. “ I am  deeply  grieved  ” (3rd  of  May, 
1843)  “about  Black.  Sorry  from  ray  heart’s 
core.  If  I could  find  him  out,  I would  go  and 
comfort  him  this  moment.”  He  did  find  him 
out;  and  he  and  a certain  number  of  us  did 
also  comfort  this  e.xcellent  man  after  a fashion 
e.xtremely  English,  by  giving  him  a Greenwich 
dinner  on  the  20th  of  May;  when  Dickens  had 
arranged  and  ordered  all  to  perfection,  and  the 
dinner  succeeded  in  its  purpose,  as  in  other 
ways,  quite  wonderfully.  Among  the  enter- 
tainers were  Sheil  and  Thackeray,  Fonblanque 
and  Charles  Buller,  Southwood  Smith  and  Wil- 
liam Johnson  Fox,  Macready  and  Maclise,  as 
well  as  myself  and  Dickens. 

There  followed  another  similar  celebration,  in 
which  one  of  those  entertainers  was  the  guest 
and  that  owed  hardly  less  to  Dickens’s  e.xer- 
tions,  when,  at  the  Star-and-garter  at  Richmond 
in  the  autumn,  we  wished  Macready  good-speed 
on  his  way  to  America.  Dickens  took  the  chair 
at  that  dinner ; and  with  Stanfield,  Maclise,  and 
myself,  was  in  the  following  week  to  have  ac- 
companied the  great  actor  to  Liverpool  to  say 
good-bye  to  him  on  board  the  Cunard  ship,  and 
bring  his  wife  back  to  London  after  their  leave- 
taking  ; when  a word  from  our  excellent  friend 
Captain  Marryat,  startling  to  all  of  us  except 
Dickens  himself,  struck  him  out  of  our  party. 
Marryat  thought  that  Macready  might  suffer  in 
the  States  by  any  public  mention  of  his  having 
been  attended  on  his  way  by  the  author  of  the 
American  Flotes  and  Martin  Chuzzlewit,  and 
our  friend  at  once  agreed  with  him.  “Your 
main  and  foremost  reason,”  he  wrote  to  me, 
“for  doubting  Marryat’s  judgment,  I can  at 
once  destroy.  It  has  occurred  to  me  many 
times ; I have  mentioned  the  thing  to  Kate 
more  than  once ; and  I had  intended  not  to  go 
on  board,  charging  Radley  to  let  nothing  be 
said  of  my  being  in  his  house.  I have  been 
prevented  from  giving  any  expression  to  my 
fears  by  a misgiving  that  I should  seem  to 
attach,  if  I did  so,  too  much  importance  to  my 

The  gentlest  man  among  those  pious  Turks 
God’s  living  image  ruthlessly  defaces  ; 

Their  best  High-Churchman,  with  no  faith  in  works. 
Bowstrings  the  Virtues  in  the  market-places. 

The  Christian  Pariah,  whom  both  sects  curse 
(They  curse  all  other  men,  and  curse  each  other), 
Wallrs  thro’  the  world,  not  very  much  the  worse. 

Does  all  the  good  he  can,  and  loves  his  brother. 

own  doings.  But  now  that  I have  Marryat  at 
my  back,  I have  not  the  least  hesitation  in  say- 
ing that  I am  certain  he  is  right.  I have  very 
great  apprehensions  that  the  Nickleby  dedication 
will  damage  Macready.  Marryat  is  wrong  in 
supposing  it  is  not  printed  in  the  American 
editions,  for  I have  myself  seen  it  in  the  shop 
windows  of  several  cities.  If  I were  to  go  on 
board  with  him,  I have  not  the  least  doubt  that 
the  fact  would  be  placarded  all  over  New  York 
before  he  had  shaved  himself  in  Boston.  And 
that  there  are  thousands  of  men  in  America 
who  would  pick  a quarrel  with  him  on  the  mere 
statement  of  his  being  my  friend,  I have  no 
more  doubt  than  I have  of  my  existence.  You 
have  only  doubted  Marryat  because  it  is  impos- 
sible for  any  7nan  to  know  what  they  are  in 
their  own  country  who  has  not  seen  them 
there.” 

This  letter  was  written  from  Broadstairs, 
whither  he  had  gone  in  August,  after  such  help 
as  he  only  could  give,  and  never  took  such 
delight  as  in  giving,  to  a work  of  practical  " 
humanity.  Earlier  in  the  year  he  had  presided 
at  a dinner  for  the  Printers’  Pension-fund,  which 
Thomas  Hood,  Douglas  Jerrold,  and  myself 
attended  with  him ; and  upon  the  terrible 
summer-evening  accident  at  sea  by  which  Mr. 
Elton  the  actor  lost  his  life,  it  was  mainly  by 
Dickens’s  unremitting  exertions,  seconded  ad- 
mirably by  Mr.  Serle  and  warmly  taken  up  by 
Mr.  Elton’s  own  profession  (the  most  generous 
in  the  world),  that  ample  provision  was  made 
for  the  many  children.  At  the  close  of  August 
I had  news  of  him  from  his  favourite  watering- 
place,  too  characteristic  to  be  omitted.  The 
day  before  had  been  a day  of  “ terrific  heat,” 
yet  this  had  not  deterred  him  from  doing  what 
he  was  too  often  suddenly  prone  to  do  in  the 
midst  of  his  hardest  w'ork.  “ I performed  an 
insane  match  against  time  of  eighteen  miles  by 
the  milestones  in  four  hours  and  a half,  under  a 
burning  sun  the  wdiole  way.  I could  get  ” (he 
is  writing  next  morning)  “ no  sleep  at  night, 
and  really  began  to  be  afraid  I was  going  to 
have  a fever.  You  may  judge  in  what  kind  of 
authorship-training  I am  to-day.  I could  as 
soon  eat  the  cliff  as  write  about  anything.”  A 
few'  days  later,  however,  all  was  well  again  ; and 
a sketch  of  himself  for  his  friend  Professor 
Felton  will  show  his  sea-side  life  in  ordinary. 

“ In  a bay-window  in  a one-pair  sits,  from  nine 
o’clock  to  one,  a gentleman  with  rather  long 
hair  and  no  neckcloth,  who  wnites  and  grins,  as 
if  he  thought  he  were  very  funny  indeed.  At 
one  he  disappears,  presently  emerges  from  a 
bathing-machine,  and  may  be  seen,  a kind  of 

136  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

salmon-coloured  porpoise,  splashing  about  in 
the  ocean.  After  that  he  may  be  viewed  in 
another  bay-window  on  the  ground  floor,  eating 
a strong  lunch  ; and  after  that,  walking  a dozen 
miles  or  so,  or  lying  on  his  back  in  the  sand 
reading  a book.  Nobody  bothers  him  unless 
they  know  he  is  disposed  to  be  talked  to  ; and 
I am  told  he  is  very  comfortable  indeed.  He’s 
as  brown  as  a berry,  and  they  do  say  is  a 
small  fortune  to  the  innkeeper  who  sells  beer 
and  cold  punch.  But  this  is  mere  rumour. 
Sometimes  he  goes  up  to  London  (eighty  miles 
or  so  away),  and  then  I’m  told  there  is  a sound 
in  Lincoln’s-inn-fields  at  night,  as  of  men  laugh- 
ing, together  with  a clinking  of  knives  and  forks 
and  wine-glasses.” 

He  returned  to  town  “ for  good  ” on  Monday 
the  2nd  of  October,  and  from  the  Wednesday 
to  the  Friday  of  that  week  was  at  Manchester, 
presiding  at  the  opening  of  its  great  Athenseum, 
when  Mr.  Cobden  and  Mr.  Disraeli  also  “ as- 
sisted.” Here  he  spoke  mainly  on  a matter 
always  nearest  his  heart,  the  education  of  the 
very  poor.  He  protested  against  the  danger  of 
calling  a little  learning  dangerous ; declared  his 
preference  for  the  very  least  of  the  little  over 
none  at  all;  proposed  to  substitute  for  the  old  a 
new  doggerel. 

Though  house  and  lands  be  never  got, 

Learning  can  give  what  they  can  not ; 

told  his  listeners  of  the  real  and  paramount 
danger  we  had  lately  taken  Longfellow  to  see  in 
the  nightly  refuges  of  London,  “ thousands  of 
immortal  creatures  condemned  without  alterna- 
tive or  choice  to  tread,  not  what  our  great  poet 
calls  the  primrose  path  to  the  everlasting  bonfire, 
but  one  of  jagged  flints  and  stones  laid  down  by 
brutal  ignorance  ;”  and  contrasted  this  with  the 
unspeakable  consolation  and  blessings  that  a 
little  knowledge  had  shed  on  men  of  the  lowest 
estate  and  most  hopeless  means,  “ watching  the 
stars  with  Ferguson  the  shepherd’s  boy,  walking 
the  streets  with  Crabbe,  a poor  barber  here  in 
Lancashire  with  Arkwright,  a tallow-chandler’s 
son  with  Franklin,  shoe-making  with  Bloomfield 
in  his  garret,  following  the  plough  with  Burns, 
and  high  above  the  noise  of  loom  and  hammer, 
whispering  courage  in  the  ears  of  workers  1 
could  this  day  name  in  Sheffield  and  in  Man- 
chester.” 

The  same  spirit  impelled  him  to  give  eager 
welcome  to  the  remarkable  institution  of  Ragged 
schools,  which,  begun  by  a shoemaker  of  Ports- 
mouth and  a chimney-sweep  of  Windsor  and 
carried  on  by  a jieer  of  the  realm,  has  had 
results  of  incalculable  importance  to  society. 

The  year  of  which  I am  writing  was  its  first,  as 
this  in  which  I write  is  its  last ; and  in  the  in- 
terval, out  of  three  hundred  thousand  children 
to  whom  it  has  given  some  sort  of  education,  it 
is  computed  also  to  have  given  to  a third  of  that 
number  the  means  of  honest  employment.’^'  “ I 
sent  Miss  Coutts,”  he  had  written  (24th  of  Sep- 
tember), “ a sledge-hammer  account  of  the 
Ragged  schools ; and  as  I saw  her  name  for 
two  hundred  pounds  in  the  clergy  education 
subscription-list,  took  pains  to  show  her  that 
religious  mysteries  and  difficult  creeds  wouldn’t 
do  for  such  pupils.  I told  her,  too,  that  it  was 
of  immense  importance  they  should  be  washed. 
She  writes  back  to  know  what  the  rent  of  some 
large  airy  premises  would  be,  and  what  the  ex- 
pense of  erecting  a regular  bathing  or  purifying 
place ; touching  which  points  I am  in  corre- 
spondence with  the  authorities.  I have  no 
doubt  she  will  do  whatever  I ask  her  in  the 
matter.  She  is  a most  excellent  creature,  I 
protest  to  God,  and  I have  a most  perfect 
affection  and  respect  for  her.” 

One  of  the  last  things  he  did  at  the  close  of 
the  year,  in  the  like  spirit,  was  to  offer  to  de- 
scribe the  Ragged  schools  for  the  Edinburgh 
Review.  “ I have  told  Napier,”  he  wrote  to  me, 
“ I will  give  a description  of  them  in  a paper  on 
education,  if  the  Retdew  is  not  afraid  to  take 
ground  against  the  church  catechism  and  other 
mere  formularies  and  subtleties,  in  reference  to 
the  education  of  the  young  and  ignorant.  I 
fear  it  is  extremely  improbable  it  will  consent  to 
commit  itself  so  far.”  His  fears  were  well- 
founded  : but  the  statements  then  made  by  him 
give  me  opportunity  to  add  that  it  was  his  im- 
patience of  differences  on  this  point  with  clergy- 
men of  the  Established  Church  that  had  led 
him,  for  the  past  year  or  two,  to  take  sittings  in 

* “ After  a period  of  27  years,  from  a single  school  of 
five  small  infants,  the  work  has  grown  into  a cluster  ol 
some  300  schools,  an  aggregate  of  neaily  30,000  children, 
and  a body  of  3,000  voluntary  teachers,  most  of  them  the 

sons  and  daughters  of  toil Of  more  than  300,000 

children  which,  on  the  most  moderate  calculation,  we 
have  a right  to  conclude  have  passed  through  tliese 
schools  since  their  commencement,  I venture  to  aflirni 
that  more  than  100,000  of  both  sexes  have  been  placed 
out  in  various  ways,  in  emigration,  in  the  marine,  in 
trades,  and  in  domestic  service.  For  many  consecutive 
years  I have  contributed  prizes  to  thousands  of  the 
scholars  ; and  let  no  one  omit  to  call  to  mind  what  these 
children  were,  whence  they  came,  and  whither  they  were 
going  without  this  merciful  intervention.  Ihey  would 
have  been  added  to  the  perilous  swarm  of  the  wild,  the 
lawless,  the  wretched,  and  the  ignorant,  instead  of  being, 
as  by  God’s  blessing  they  are,  decent  and  comlortable, 
earning  an  honest  livelihood,  and  adorning  the  commu- 
nity to  which  they  belong.” — Letter  of  L.ord  Shaftesbury 
in  the  Times  oj  the  \yh  of  November,  1871. 

1 

CIIUZZLEWIT  DISAPPOINTMENTS  AND  CHRISTMAS  CAROL.  137 


the  Little  Portland-street  Unitarian  chapel ; for 
whose  officiating  minister,  Mr.  Edward  Tagart, 
he  had  a friendly  regard  which  continued  long 
after  he  had  ceased  to  be  a member  of  his  con- 
gregation. That  he  did  so  cease,  after  two  or 
three  years,  I can  distinctly  state ; and  of  the 
frequent  agitation  of  his  mind  and  thoughts  in 
connection  with  this  all-important  theme,  there 
will  be  other  occasions  to  speak.  But  upon 
essential  points  he  had  never  any  sympathy  so 
strong  as  with  the  leading  doctrines  of  the 
Church  of  England ; to  these,  as  time  went  on, 
he  found  himself  able  to  accommodate  all  minor 
differences  ; and  the  unswerving  faith  in  Chris- 
tianity itself,  apart  from  sects  and  schisms, 
which  had  never  failed  him  at  any  period  of  his 
life,  found  e.xpression  at  its  close  in  the  language 
of  his  will.  Twelve  months  before  his  death, 
these  words  were  written.  “ I direct  that  my 
name  be  inscribed  in  plain  English  letters  on 

my  tomb I conjure  my  friends  on  no 

account  to  make  me  the  subject  of  any  monu- 
ment, memorial,  or  testimonial  whatever.  I rest 
my  claim  to  the  remembrance  of  my  country  on 
my  published  works,  and  to  the  remembrance  of 
my  friends  upon  their  experience  of  me  in  ad- 
dition thereto.  I commit  my  soul  to  the  mercy 
of  God,  through  our  Lord  and  Saviour  Jesus 
Christ  j and  I exhort  my  dear  children  humbly 
to  try  to  guide  themselves  by  the  teaching  of 
the  New  Testament  in  its  broad  spirit,  and  to 
put  no  faith  in  any  man’s  narrow  construction 
of  its  letter  here  or  there.” 

Active  as  he  had  been  in  the  now  ending 
year,  and  great  as  were  its  varieties  of  employ- 
ment ; his  genius  in  its  highest  mood,  his  energy 
unwearied  in  good  work,  and  his  capacity  for 
enjoyment  without  limit ; he  was  able  to  signalize 
its  closing  months  by  an  achievement  supremely 
fortunate,  which  but  for  disappointments  the  year 
had  also  brought  might  never  have  been  thought 
of.  He  had  not  begun  until  a week  after  his 
return  from  Manchester,  where  the  fancy  first 
occurred  to  him,  and  before  the  end  of  Novem- 
ber he  had  finished,  his  memorable  Christmas 
Carol.  It  was  the  work  of  such  odd  moments 
of  leisure  as  were  left  him  out  of  the  time  taken 
up  by  two  numbers  of  his  Chuzzlewit ; and 
though  begun  with  but  the  special  design  of 
adding  something  to  the  Chuzzlewit  balance,  I 
can  testify  to  the  accuracy  of  his  own  account  of 
what  befell  him  in  its  composition,  with  what  a 
strange  mastery  it  seized  him  for  itself,  how  he 
wept  over  it,  and  laughed,  and  wept  again,  and 
excited  himself  to  an  extraordinary  degree,  and 
how  he  walked  thinking  of  it  fifteen  and  twenty 
miles  about  the  black  streets  of  London,  many 


and  many  a night  after  all  sober  folks  had  gone 
to  bed.  And  when  it  was  done,  as  he  told  our 
American  friend  Mr.  Felton,  he  let  himself  loose 
like  a madman.  “ Forster  is  out  again,”  he 
added,  by  way  of  illustrating  our  practical  com- 
ments on  his  book-celebration  of  the  jovial  old 
season,  “ and  if  he  don’t  go  in  again  after  the 
manner  in  which  we  have  been  keeping  Christ- 
mas, he  must  be  very  strong  indeed.  Such 
dinings,  such  dancings,  such  conjurings,  such 
blind-man’s  buffings,  such  theatre-goings,  such 
kissings-out  of  old  years  and  kissings-in  of  new 
ones,  never  took  place  in  these  parts  before.” 
Yet  had  it  been  to  him,  this  closing  year,  a 
time  also  of  much  anxiety  and  strange  disap^ 
pointments  of  which  I am  now  to  speak ; and 
before,  with  that  view,  we  go  back  for  a while  to 
its  earlier  months,  one  step  into  the  new  year 
may  be  taken  for  what  marked  it  with  interest 
and  importance  to  him.  Eighteen  hundred  and 
forty-four  was  but  fifteen  days  old  when  a third 
son  (his  fifth  child,  which  received  the  name  of 
its  godfather  Francis  Jeffrey)  was  born;  and 
here  is  an  answer  sent  by  him,  two  days  later, 
to  an  invitation  from  Maclise,  Stanfield,  and 
myself  to  dine  with  us  at  Richmond.  “ Devon- 
shire Lodge,  Seventeenth  of  Jaiiuary.,  1844. 
Fellow  Countrymen  ! The  appeal  with  which 
you  have  honoured  me,  awakens  within  my  breast 
emotions  that  are  more  easily  to  be  imagined 
than  described.  Heaven  bless  you.  I shall 
indeed  be  proud,  my  friends,  to  respond  to  such 
a requisition.  I had  withdrawn  from  Public 
Life — I fondly  thought  for  ever — to  pass  the 
evening  of  my  days  in  hydropathical  pursuits, 
and  the  contemplation  of  virtue.  For  which 
latter  purpose  I had  bought  a looking-glass. — 
But,  my  friends,  private  feeling  must  ever  yield 
to  a stern  sense  of  public  duty.  The  Man  is 
lost  in  the  Invited  Guest,  and  I comply.  Nurses, 
wet  and  dry ; apothecaries  ; mothers-in-law ; 
babies  ; with  all  the  sweet  (and  chaste)  delights  of 
private  life ; these,  my  countrymen,  are  hard  to 
leave.  But  you  have  called  me  forth,  and  I will 
come.  Fellow  countrymen,  your  friend  and 
faithful  servant,  Charles  Dickens.” 


II. 

CHUZZLEWIT  DISAPPOINTMENTS  AND 
CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 

1843—1844. 

^HUZZLEWIT  had  fallen  short  of  all  the 
expectations  formed  of  it  in  regard  to  sale. 
By  much  the  most  masterly  of  his  writings 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DLCLCENS. 


138 


hitherto,  the  public  had  rallied  to  it  in  far  less 
numbers  than  to  any  of  its  predecessors.  The 
primary  cause  of  this,  there  is  little  doubt,  had 
been  the  change  to  weekly  issues  in  the  form  of 
publication  of  his  last  two  stories ; for  into 
everything  in  this  world  mere  habit  enters  more 
largely  than  we  are  apt  to  suppose.  Nor  had 
the  temporary  withdrawal  to  America  been 
favourable  to  an  immediate  resumiTtion  by  his 
readers  of  their  old  and  intimate  relations.  This 
also  is  to  be  added,  that  the  excitement  by 
which  a popular  reputation  is  kept  up  to  the 
highest  selling  mark  will  always  be  subject  to 
lulls  too  capricious  for  explanation.  But  what- 
ever the  causes,  here  was  the  undeniable  fact  of 
a grave  depreciation  of  sale  in  his  writings,  un- 
accompanied by  any  falling  off  either  in  them- 
selves or  in  the  writer’s  reputation.  It  was  very 
temporary ; but  it  was  present,  and  to  be  dealt 
with  accordingly.  The  forty  and  fifty  thousand 
purchasers  of  Pickwick  and  Nickleby,  the  sixty 
and  seventy  thousand  of  the  early  numbers  of 
the  enterprise  in  which  the  Old  Curiosity 
Shop  and  Barnahy  Radge  appeared,  had  fallen 
to  little  over  twenty  thousand.  They  rose 
somewhat  on  Martin’s  ominous  announcement, 
at  the  end  of  the  fourth  number,  that  he’d 
go  to  America  ; but  though  it  was  believed  that 
this  resolve,  which  Dickens  adopted  as  suddenly 
as  his  hero,  might  increase  the  number  of  his 
readers,  that  reason  influenced  him  less  than  the 
challenge  to  make  good  his  JVotes  which  every 
mail  had  been  bringing  him  from  unsparing 
assailants  beyond  the  Atlantic.  The  substantial 
effect  of  the  American  episode  upon  the  sale 
was  yet  by  no  means  great.  A couple  of  thou- 
sand additional  purchasers  were  added,  but  the 
highest  number  at  any  time  reached  before  the 
story  closed  was  twenty-three  thousand.  Its 
sale,  since,  has  ranked  next  after  Pickwick  and 
Copper-field. 

We  were  now,  however,  to  have  a truth 
brought  home  to  us  which  few  that  have  had 
real  or  varied  experience  in  such  matters  can 
have  failed  to  be  impressed  by — that  publishers 
are  bitter  bad  judges  of  an  author,  and  are  sel- 
dom safe  persons  to  consult  in  regard  to  the  fate 
or  fortunes  that  may  probably  await  him.  De- 
scribing the  agreement  for  this  book  in  September 
i84t,  I spoke  of  a provision  against  the  impro- 
bable event  of  its  profits  proving  inadequate  to 
certain  necessary  repayments.  In  this  unlikely 
case,  which  was  to  be  ascertained  by  the  proceeds 
of  the  first  five  numbers,  the  publishers  were  to 
have  power  to  appropriate  fifty  pounds  a month 
out  of  the  two  hundred  pounds  payable  for 
authorship  in  the  expenses  of  each  number;  but 


though  this  had  been  introduced  with  my  know- 
ledge, I knew  also  too  much  of  the  antecedent 
relations  of  the  parties  to  regard  it  as  other  than 
a mere  form  to  satisfy  the  attorneys  in  the  case. 
The  fifth  number,  which  landed  Martin  and 
Mark  in  America,  and  the  sixth,  which  described 
their  first  experiences,  were  published ; and  on 
the  eve  of  the  seventh,  in  which  Mrs.  Gamp  was 
to  make  her  first  appearance,  I heard  with  infi- 
nite pain  that  from  Mr.  Hall,  the  younger  part- 
ner of  the  firm  which  had  enriched  itself  by 
Pickwick  and  Nickleby,  and  a very  kind  well- 
disposed  man,  there  had  dropped  an  incon- 
siderate hint  to  the  writer  of  those  books  that  it 
might  be  desirable  to  put  the  clause  in  force. 
It  had  escaped  him  without  his  thinking  of  all 
that  it  involved ; certainly  the  senior  partner, 
whatever  amount  of  as  thoughtless  sanction  he 
had  at  the  moment  given  to  it,  always  much 
regretted  it,  and  made  endeavours  to  exhibit  his 
regret ; but  the  mischief  was  done,  and  for  the 
time  was  irreparable. 

“ I am  so  irritated,”  Dickens  wrote  to  me  on 
the  28th  of  June,  “ so  rubbed  in  the  tenderest 
part  of  my  eyelids  with  bay-salt,  by  what  I told 
you  yesterday,  that  a wrong  kind  of  fire  is  burn- 
ing in  my  head,  and  I don’t  think  I can  write. 
Nevertheless,  I am  trying.  In  case  I should 
succeed,  and  should  not  come  down  to  you  this 
morning,  shall  you  be  at  the  club  or  elsewhere 
after  dinner  ? I am  bent  on  paying  the  money. 
And  before  going  into  the  matter  with  anybody 
I should  like  you  to  propound  from  me  the  one 
preliminary  question  to  Bradbury  and  Evans. 
It  is  more  than  a year  and  a half  since  Clowes 
wrote  to  urge  me  to  give  him  a hearing,  in  case 
I should  ever  think  of  altering  my  plans.  A 
printer  is  better  than  a bookseller,  and  it  is  quite 
as  much  the  interest  of  one  (if  not  more)  to  join 
me.  But  whoever  it  is,  or  whatever,  I am  bent 
upon  paying  Chapman  and  Hall  down.  And 
when  I have  done  that,  Mr.  Hall  shall  have  a 
piece  of  my  mind.” 

What  he  meant  by  the  proposed  repayment 
will  be  understood  by  what  formerly  was  said  of 
his  arrangements  with  those  gentlemen  on  the 
repurchase  of  his  early  copyrights.  Feeling  no 
surprise  at  this  announcement,  I yet  prevailed 
with  him  to  suspend  proceedings  until  his  return 
from  Broadstairs  in  October ; and  what  then  I 
had  to  say  led  to  memorable  resolves.  The 
communication  he  had  desired  me  to  make  to 
his  printers  had  taken  them  too  much  by  sur- 
prise to  enable  them  to  form  a clear  judgment 
respecting  it ; and  they  replied  by  suggestions 
which  were  in  effect  a confession  of  that  want  of 
confidence  in  themselves.  They  enlarged  upon 


CirUZZLE  WIT  DISAPPOINTMENTS  AND  CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 


the  great  results  that  would  follow  a re-issue  of 
his  writings  in  a cheap  form  ; they  strongly  urged 
such  an  undertaking ; and  they  offered  to  invest 
to  any  desired  amount  in  the  establishment  of  a 
magazine  or  other  periodical  to  be  edited  by 
him.  The  possible  dangers,  in  short,  incident 
to  their  assuming  the  position  of  publishers  as 
well  as  printers  of  new  works  from  his  pen, 
seemed  at  first  to  be  so  much  greater  than  on 
closer  e.xamination  they  were  found  to  be,  that 
at  the  outset  they  shrank  from  encountering 
them.  And  hence  the  remarkable  letter  I shall 
now  quote  (ist  of  November,  1843). 

“ Don’t  be  startled  by  the  novelty  and  extent 
of  my  project.  Both  startled  7ne  at  first;  but  I 
am  well  assured  of  its  wisdom  and  necessity.  I 
am  afraid  of  a magazine — just  now.  I don’t 
think  the  time  a good  one,  or  the  chances 
favourable.  I am  afraid  of  putting  myself  before 
the  town  as  writing  tooth  and  nail  for  bread, 
headlong,  after  the  close  of  a book  taking  so 
much  out  of  one  as  Chuzzlewit.  I am  afraid  I 
could  not  do  it,  with  justice  to  myself.  I know 
that  whatever  we  may  say  at  first,  a new  maga- 
zine, or  a new  anything,  would  require  so  much 
propping,  that  I should  be  forced  (as  in  the 
Clock)  to  put  myself  into  it,  in  my  old  shape.  I 
am  afraid  of  Bradbury  and  Evans’s  desire  to 
force  on  the  cheap  issue  of  my  books,  or  any  of 
them,  prematurely.  I am  sure  if  it  took  place 
yet  awhile,  it  would  damage  me  and  damage  the 
property,  enormously.  It  is  very  natural  in  them 
to  want  it ; but,  since  they  do  want  it,  I have  no 
faith  in  their  regarding  me  in  any  otlier  respect 
than  they  would  regard  any  other  man  in  a 
speculation.  I see  that  this  is  really  your  opinion 
as  well ; and  I don’t  see  what  I gain,  in  such  a 
case,  by  leaving  Chapman  and  Hall.  If  I had 
made  money,  I should  unquestionably  fade  away 
from  the  public  eye  for  a year,  and  enlarge  my 
stock  of  description  and  observation  by  seeing 
countries  new  to  me ; which  it  is  most  necessary 
to  me  that  I should  see,  and  which  with  an  in- 
creasing family  I can  scarcely  hope  to  see  at  all, 
unless  I see  them  now.  Already  for  some  time 
I have  had  this  hope  and  intention  before  me ; 
and,  though  not  having  yet  made  money,  I find 
or  fancy  that  I can  put  myself  in  the  position  to 
accomplish  it.  And  this  is  the  course  I have 
before  me.  At  the  close  of  Chuzzlewit  (by  which 
time  the  debt  will  have  been  materially  reduced) 
I purpose  drawing  from  Chapman  and  Hall  my 
share  of  the  subscription — bills,  or  money,  will 
do  equally  well.  I design  to  tell  them  that  it  is 
not  likely  I shall  do  anything  for  a year;  that, 
in  the  meantime,  I make  no  arrangement  what- 
ever with  any  one;  and  our  business  matters 


rest  in  statu  quo.  The  same  to  Bradbury  and 
Evans.  I shall  let  the  house  if  I can ; if  not, 
leave  it  to  be  let.  I shall  take  all  the  family, 
and  two  servants — three  at  most — to  some  place 
which  I know  beforehand  to  be  cheap  and  in  a 
delightful  climate,  in  Normandy  or  Brittany,  to 
which  I shall  go  over,  first,  and  where  I shall 
rent  some  house  for  six  or  eight  months.  During 
that  time,  I shall  walk  through  Switzerland,  cross 
the  Alps,  travel  through  France  and  Italy ; take 
Kate  perhaps  to  Rome  and  Venice,  but  not 
elsewhere ; and  in  short  see  everything  that  is 
to  be  seen.  I shall  write  my  descriptions  to  you 
from  time  to  time,  exactly  as  I did  in  America ; 
and  you  will  be  able  to  judge  whether  or  not  a 
new  and  attractive  book  may  not  be  made  on 
such  ground.  At  the  same  time  I shall  be  able 
to  turn  over  the  story  I have  in  my  mind,  and 
which  I have  a strong  notion  might  be  published 
with  great  advantage,  first  hi  Paris — but  that’s 
another  matter  to  be  talked  over.  And  of 
course  I have  not  yet  settled,  either,  whether 
any  book  about  the  travel,  or  this,  should  be 
the  first.  ‘ All  very  well,’  you  say,  ‘ if  you  had 
money  enough.’  Well,  but  if  I can  see  my  way 
to  what  would  be  necessary  without  binding  my- 
self in  any  form  to  anything;  without  paying 
interest,  or  giving  any  security  but  one  of  my 
Eagle  five  thousand  pounds ; you  would  give  up 
that  objection.  And  I stand  committed  to  no 
bookseller,  printer,  money-lender,  banker,  or 
patron  whatever ; and  decidedly  strengthen  my 
position  with  my  readers,  instead  of  weakening 
it,  drop  by  drop,  as  I otherwise  must.  Is  it  not 
so  ? and  is  not  the  way  before  me,  plainly  this  ? 
I infer  that  in  reality  you  do  yourself  think  that 
what  I first  thought  of  is  not  the  way  ? I have 
told  you  my  scheme  very  baldly,  as  I said  I 
would.  I see  its  great  points,  against  many  pre- 
possessions the  other  way — as,  leaving  England, 
home,  friends,  everything  I am  fond  of — but  it 
seems  to  me,  at  a critical  time,  the  step  to  set 
me  right.  A blessing  on  Mr.  Mariotti  my  Italian 
master,  and  his  pupil  ! ....  If  you  have  any 
breath  left,  tell  Topping  how  you  are.” 

I had  certainly  not  much  after  reading  this 
letter,  written  amid  all  the  distractions  of  his 
work,  with  both  the  Carol  and  Chuzzlewit  in 
hand ; but  such  insufficient  breath  as  was  left  to 
me  I spent  against  the  project,  and  in  favour  of 
far  more  consideration  than  he  had  given  to  it 
before  anything  should  be  settled.  “ I expected 
you,”  he  wrote  next  day  (the  2nd  of  November), 
“ to  be  startled.  If  I was  startled  myself,  when 
I first  got  this  project  of  foreign  travel  into  my 
head,  months  ago,  how  much  more  must  you 
be,  on  whom  it  comes  fresh : numbering  only 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DLCKENS. 


hours  ! Still,  I am  very  resolute  upon  it — very. 

I am  convinced  that  my  expenses  abroad  would 
not  be  more  than  half  of  my  expenses  here ; the 
influence  of  change  and  nature  upon  me,  enor- 
mous. You  know,  as  well  as  I,  that  I think 
Chuzzlewit  in  a hundred  points  immeasurably 
the  best  of  my  stories.  That  I feel  my  power 
now,  more  than  I ever  did.  That  I have  a 
greater  confidence  in  myself  than  I ever  had. 
That  I know,  if  I have  health,  I could  sustain 
my  place  in  the  minds  of  thinking  men,  though 
fifty  writers  started  up  to-morrow.  But  how 
many  readers  do  7iot  think  ! How  many  take 
it  upon  trust  from  knaves  and  idiots,  that  one 
writes  too  fast,  or  runs  a thing  to  death ! How 
coldly  did  this  very  book  go  on  for  months, 
until  it  forced  itself  up  in  people’s  opinion,  with- 
out forcing  itself  up  in  sale  ! If  I wrote  for  forty 
thousand  Forsters,  or  for  forty  thousand  people 
who  know  I write  because  I can’t  help  it,  I 
should  have  no  need  to  leave  the  scene.  But 
this  very  book  warns  me  that  if  I can  leave  it 
for  a time,  I had  better  do  so,  and  must  do  so. 
Apart  from  that  again,  I feel  that  longer  rest 
after  this  story  would  do  me  good.  You  say 
two  or  three  months,  because  you  have  been 
used  to  see  me  for  eight  years  never  leaving  off. 
But  it  is  not  rest  enough.  It  is  impossible  to 
go  on  working  the  brain  to  that  extent  for  ever. 
The  very  spirit  of  the  thing,  in  doing  it,  leaves  a 
horrible  despondency  behind,  when  it  is  done ; 
which  must  be  prejudicial  to  the  mind,  so  soon 
renewed  and  so  seldom  let  alone.  What  would 
poor  Scott  have  given  to  have  gone  abroad,  of 
his  own  free  will,  a young  man,  instead  of  creep- 
ing there,  a driveller,  in  his  miserable  decay  ! I 
said  myself  in  my  note  to  you — anticipating 
what  you  put  to  me — that  it  was  a question 
what  I should  come  out  with,  first.  The  travel- 
book,  if  it  be  done  at  all,  would  cost  me  very 
little  trouble ; and  surely  would  go  very  far  to 
pay  charges,  whenever  published.  VVe  have 
spoken  of  the  baby,  and  of  leaving  it  here  with 
Catherine’s  mother.  Moving  the  children  into 
France  could  not,  in  any  ordinary  course  of 
things,  do  them  anything  but  good.  And  the 
question  is,  what  it  would  do  to  that  by  which 

they  live  : not  what  it  would  do  to  them 

I had  forgotten  that  point  in  the  B.  and  E. 
negociation ; but  they  certainly  suggested  in- 
stant publication  of  the  reprints,  or  at  all  events 
of  some  of  them;  by  which  of  course  I know, 
and  as  you  point  out,  I could  provide  of  myself 
what  is  wanted.  I take  this  as  putting  the  thing 
distinctly  as  a matter  of  trade,  and  feeling  it  so. 
And,  as  a matter  of  trade  with  them  or  anybody 
else,  as  a matter  of  trade  between  me  and  the 


public,  should  I not  be  better  off  a year  hence, 
with  the  reputation  of  having  seen  so  much  in 
the  meantime  ? The  reason  which  induces  you 
to  look  upon  this  scheme  with  dislike — separa- 
tion for  so  long  a time — surely  has  equal  weight 
with  me.  I see  very  little  pleasure  in  it,  beyond 
the  natural  desire  to  have  been  in  those  great 
scenes ; I anticipate  no  enjoyment  at  the  time. 

I have  come  to  look  upon  it  as  a matter  of  policy 
and  duty.  I have  a thousand  other  reasons, 
but  shall  very  soon  myself  be  with  you.” 

There  were  difficulties,  still  to  be  strongly 
uiged,  against  taking  any  present  step  to  a final 
resolve ; and  he  gave  way  a little.  But  the 
pressure  was  soon  renewed.  “ I have  been,” 
he  wrote  (loth  of  November),  “all  day  in 
CJmzzlewit  agonies — conceiving  only.  I hope 
to  bring  forth  to-morrow.  Will  you  come  here 
at  six  ? I w'ant  to  say  a word  or  two  about  the 
cover  of  the  Carol  and  the  advertising,  and  to 
consult  you  on  a nice  point  in  the  tale.  It  will 
come  wonderfully  I think.  Mac  will  call  here 
soon  after,  and  we  can  then  all  three  go  to 
Bulwer’s  together.  And  do,  my  dear  fellow',  do 
for  God’s  sake  turn  over  about  Chapman  and 
Hall,  and  look  upon  my  project  as  a settled 
thing.  If  you  object  to  see  them,  I must  w'rite 
to  them.”  My  reluctance  to  any  present  change 
in  his  publishing  arrangements  was  connecteil 
with  the  little  story,  which,  amid  all  his  troubles 
and  “ Chuzzlewit  agonies,”  he  was  steadily  car- 
rying to  its  close;  and  which  remains  a splendid 
proof  of  the  consciousness  of  power  felt  by  him, 
and  of  his  confidence  that  it  had  never  been 
greater  than  when  his  readers  were  thus  falling 
off  from  him.  He  had  entrusted  the  Carol  for 
publication  on  his  own  account,  under  the  usual 
terms  of  commission,  to  the  firm  he  had  been  so 
long  associated  with ; and  at  such  a moment  to 
tell  them,  short  of  absolute  necessity,  his  inten- 
tion to  quit  them  altogether,  I thought  a need- 
less putting  in  peril  of  the  little  book’s  chances. 
He  yielded  to  this  argument ; but  the  issue,  as 
will  be  found,  was  less  fortunate  than  I hoped. 

Let  disappointments  or  annoyances,  how'ever, 
beset  him  as  they  might,  once  heartily  in  his 
work  and  all  was  forgotten.  His  temperament 
of  course  coloured  everything,  cheerful  or  sad, 
and  his  present  outlook  was  disturbed  by  ima- 
ginary fears : but  it  w'as  very  certain  that  his 
labours  and  successes  thus  far  had  enriched 
others  more  than  himself,  and  while  he  knew 
that  his  mode  of  living  had  been  scrupulously 
governed  by  what  he  believed  to  be  his  means, 
the  first  suspicion  that  these  might  be  inade- 
quate made  a change  necessary  to  so  upright  a 
nature.  It  was  the  turning-point  of  his  career  ; 


ClWZZLEWir  DISAPPOINIWIENTS  AND  CI/P/STMAS  CAROL. 


and  the  issue,  though  not  immediately,  ulti- 
mately justified  him.  Much  of  his  present  rest- 
lessness I was  too  ready  myself  to  ascribe  to 
that  love  of  change  which  was  always  arising 
from  his  passionate  desire  to  vary  and  exteml 
his  observation ; but  even  as  to  this  the  result 
showed  him  right  in  believing  that  he  should 
obtain  intellectual  atlvantage  from  the  effects  of 
such  farther  travel.  Here  indeed  he  spoke  from 
e.xperience,  for  already  he  had  returned  from 
America  with  wider  views  than  when  he  started, 
and  with  more  maturity  of  mind.  The  money 
difficulties  on  which  he  dwelt  were  also,  it  is 
now  to  be  admitted,  unquestionable.  Beyond 
his  own  domestic  e.xpenses  necessarily  increas- 
ing, there  were  many,  never-satisfied,  constantly- 
recurring  claims  from  family  quarters,  not  the 
more  easily  avoidable  because  unreasonable  and 
unjust  ■,  and  it  was  after  describing  to  me  one 
such  with  great  bitterness,  a few  days  following 
the  letter  last  quoted,  that  he  thus  replied  on 
the  following  day  (19th  of  November)  to  the 
comment  I had  made  upon  it.  “ I was  most 
horribly  put  out  for  a little  while  ; for  I had  got 
up  early  to  go  to  work,  and  was  full  of  interest 
in  what  I had  to  do.  But  having  eased  my 
mind  by  that  note  to  you,  and  taken  a turn  or 
two  up  and  down  the  room,  I went  at  it  again, 
and  soon  got  so  interested  that  I blazed  away 
till  9 last  night ; only  stopping  ten  minutes  for 
dinner  ! I suppose  I wrote  eight  printed  pages 
of  Chuzzlewit  yesterday.  The  consequence  is 
that  1 could  finish  to-day,  but  am  taking  it  easy, 
and  making  myself  laugh  very  much.”  The 
very  next  day,  unhappily,  there  came  to  himself 
a repetition  of  precisely  similar  trouble  in  exag- 
gerated form,  and  to  me  a fresh  reminder  of 
what  was  gradually  settling  into  a fixed  resolve. 
“ I am  quite  serious  and  sober  when  I say,  that 
I have  very  grave  thoughts  of  keeping  my  whole 
menagerie  in  Italy,  three  years.” 

Of  the  book  which  awoke  such  varied  feelings 
and  was  the  occasion  of  such  vicissitudes  of  for- 
tune, some  notice  is  now  due ; and  this,  follow- 
ing still  my  former  rule,  will  be  not  so  much 
critical  as  biographical.  He  had  left  for  Italy 
before  the  completed  tale  was  published,  and  its 
reception  for  a time  was  exactly  what  his  just- 
quoted  letter  prefigures.  It  had  forced  itself  up 
in  public  opinion  without  forcing  itself  up  in 
sale.  It  was  felt  generally  to  be  an  advance 
upon  his  previous  stories,  and  his  own  opinion 
is  not  to  be  questioned  that  it  was  in  a hundred 
points  immeasurably  the  best  of  them  thus  far ; 
less  upon  the  surface,  and  going  deeper  into 
springs  of  character.  Nor  would  it  be  difficult 
to  say,  in  a single  word,  where  the  excellence 


141 


lay  that  gave  it  this  superiority.  It  had  brought 
the  highest  faculty  into  play : over  and  above 
other  qualities  it  had  given  scope  to  the  ima- 
gination ; and  it  first  expressed  the  distinction  1 
in  this  respect  between  his  earlier  ‘and  his  later  | 
books.  Apart  wholly  from  this,  too,  his  letters  | 
will  have  confirmed  a remark  already  made 
upon  the  degree  to  which  his  mental  power 
had  been  enlarged  by  the  effect  of  his  visit  to 
America. 

In  construction  and  conduct  of  story  Martin 
Chuzzlewit  is  defective,  character  and  descrip- 
tion constituting  the  chief  part  of  its  strength. 

But  what  it  lost  as  a story  by  the  American 
episode  it  gained  in  the  other  direction  3 young 
Martin,  by  happy  use  of  a bitter  experience, 
casting  off  his  slough  of  selfishness  in  the  poi- 
sonous swamp  of  Eden.  Dickens  often  con- 
fessed, however,  the  difficulty  it  had  been  to 
him  to  have  to  deal  with  this  gap  in  the  main  | 

course  of  his  narrative ; and  I will  give  an  in-  1 

stance  from  a letter  he  wrote  to  me  when  en-  | 

gaged  upon  the  number  in  which  Jonas  brings  ! 

his  wife  to  her  miserable  home.  “ I write  in  j 
haste”  (28th  of  July,  1843),  “for  I have  been  | 

at  work  all  day  3 and,  it  being  against  the  grain  j 

with  me  to  go  back  to  America  when  my  inter-  \ 

est  is  strong  in  the  other  parts  of  the  tale,  have  j 
got  on  but  slowly.  I have  a great  notion  ta 
work  out  with  Sydney’s  favourite,*  and  long  to 
be  at  him  again.”  But  obstructions  of  this- 
kind  with  Dickens  measured  only  and  always 
the  degree  of  readiness  and  resource  with  which 
he  rose  to  meet  them,  and  never  had  his  hand- 
ling of  character  been  so  masterly  as  in  Chuz- 
zlewit.  The  persons  delineated  in  former  books 
had  been  more  agreeable,  but  never  so  inter- 
penetrated with  meanings  brought  out  with  a 
grasp  so  large,  easy,  and  firm.  As  well  in  this 
as  in  the  passionate  vividness  of  its  descriptions, 
the  imaginative  power  makes  itself  felt.  The 
windy  autumn  night,  with  the  mad  desperation 
of  the  hunted  leaves  and  the  roaring  mirth  of 
the  blazing  village  forge  3 the  market-day  at 
Salisbury  3 the  winter  walk,  and  the  coach 
journey  to  London  by  night  3 the  ship  voyage 
over  the  Atlantic  3 the  stormy  midnight  travel 
before  the  murder,  the  stealthy  enterprise  and 
cowardly  return  of  the  murderer  3 these  are  in- 
stances of  first-rate  description,  original  in  the 
design,  imaginative  in  all  the  detail,  and  very 
complete  in  the  execution.  But  the  higher 
power  to  which  1 direct  attention  is  even  better 
discerned  in  the  persons  and  dialogue.  With 
nothing  absent  or  abated  in  its  sharp  impres- 
sions of  reality,  there  are  more  of  the  subtle 
* Cliuffey. 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


142 


rc(iiiisites  whicli  satisfy  reflection  and  thought. 
We  have  in  this  book  for  the  most  part,  not 
only  observation,  but  the  outcome  of  it,  the 
knowledge  as  well  as  the  fact.  While  we  wit- 
ness as  vividly  the  life  immediately  passing,  we 
are  more  conscious  of  the  permanent  life  above 
and  beyond  it.  Nothing  nearly  so  effective 
therefore  had  yet  been  achieved  by  him.  He 
had  scrutinised  as  truly  and  satirised  as  keenly; 
but  had  never  shown  the  imaginative  insight 
with  which  he  now  sent  his  humour  and  his  art 
into  the  core  of  the  vices  of  the  time. 

Sending  me  the  second  chapter  of  his  eighth 
number  on  the  15th  of  August,  he  gave  me  the 
latest  tidings  from  America.  “ I gather  from  a 
letter  I have  had  this  morning  that  Martin  has 
made  them  all  stark  staring  raving  mad  across 
the  water.  I wish  you  would  consider  this. 
Don’t  you  think  the  time  has  come  when  I 
ought  to  state  that  such  public  entertainments 
as  I received  in  the  States  were  either  accepted 
before  I went  out,  or  in  the  first  week  after  my 
arrival  there;  and  that  as  soon  as  I began  to 
have  any  acquaintance  with  the  country,  I set 
my  face  against  any  public  recognition  whatever 
but  that  which  was  forced  upon  me  to  the  de- 
struction of  my  peace  and  comfort — and  made 
no  secret  of  my  real  sentiments.”  We  did  not 
agree  as  to  this,  and  the  notion  was  abandoned ; 
though  his  correspondent  had  not  overstated 
the  violence  of  the  outbreak  in  the  States  when 
those  chapters  exploded  upon  them.  But  though 
an  excitable  they  are  a good  humoured  and 
placable  people ; and,  as  time  moved  on  a 
little,  the  laughter  on  that  side  of  the  Atlantic 
became  quite  as  great  as  our  amusement  on  this 
side,  at  the  astonishing  fun  and  comicality  of 
these  scenes.  With  a little  reflection  the  Ame- 
ricans had  doubtless  begun  to  find  out  that  the 
advantage  was  not  all  with  us,  nor  the  laughter 
wholly  against  them. 

They  had  no  Pecksniff  at  any  rate.  Bred  in 
a more  poisonous  swamp  than  their  Eden,  of 
greatly  older  standing  and  much  harder  to  be 
drained,  Pecksniff  was  all  our  own.  The  con- 
fession is  not  encouraging  to  national  pride,  but 
this  character  is  so  far  English,  that  though  our 
countrymen  as  a rule  are  by  no  means  Pecksniffs 
the  ruling  weakness  is  to  countenance  and  en- 
courage the  race.  When  people  call  the  charac- 
ter exaggerated,  and  protest  that  the  lines  are 
too  broad  to  deceive  any  one,  they  only  refuse, 
naturally  enough,  to  sanction  in  a book  what 
half  their  lives  is  passed  in  tolerating  if  not  in 
worshipping.  Dickens,  illustrating  his  never- 
failing  experience  of  being  obliged  to  subdue  in 
his  books  what  he  knew  to  be  real  for  fear  it 


should  be  deemed  impossible,  had  already  made 
the  remark  in  his  preface  to  Nickleby,  that  the 
world,  which  is  so  very  credulous  in  what  pro- 
fesses to  be  true,  is  most  incredulous  in  what 
professes  to  be  imaginary.  They  agree  to  be 
deceived  in  a reality,  and  reward  themselves  by 
refusing  to  be  deceived  in  a fiction.  That  a 
great  many  people  who  might  have  sat  for 
Pecksniff  should  condemn  him  for  a grotesque 
impossibility,  as  Dickens  averred  to  be  the  case, 
was  no  more  than  might  be  expected.  A 
greater  danger  he  has  exposed  more  usefully  in 
showing  the  larger  numbers,  who,  desiring  to  be 
thought  better  than  they  are,  support  eagerly 
pretensions  that  keep  their  own  in  countenance, 
and  without  being  Pecksniffs,  render  Pecksniffs 
possible.  All  impostures  would  have  something 
suspicious  or  too  forbidding  in  their  look  if  we 
were  not  prepared  to  meet  them  half-way. 

There  is  one  thing  favourable  to  us  however, 
even  in  this  view,  which  a French  critic  has 
lately  suggested.  Informing  us  that  there  are 
no  Pecksniffs  to  be  found  in  France,  Mr.  Taine 
explains  this  by  the  fact  that  his  countrymen 
have  ceased  to  affect  virtue,  and  pretend  only 
to  vice ; that  a charlatan  setting  up  morality 
would  have  no  sort  of  following ; that  religion 
and  the  domestic  virtues  have  gone  so  utterly  to 
rags  as  not  to  be  worth  putting  on  for  a deceit- 
ful garment ; and  that,  no  principles  being  left 
to  parade,  the  only  chance  for  the  French 
modern  Tartufife  is  to  confess  and  exaggerate 
weaknesses.  We  seem  to  have  something  of  an 
advantage  here.  We  require  at  least  that  the 
respectable  homage  of  vice  to  virtue  should  not 
be  omitted.  “ Charity,  my  dear,”  says  our  Eng- 
lish Tartuffe,  upon  being  bluntly  called  what  he 
really  is,  “ when  I take  my  chamber-candlestick 
to-night,  remind  me  to  be  more  than  usually 
particular  in  praying  for  Mr.  Anthony  Chuzze- 
wit,  who  has  done  me  an  injustice.”  No  amount 
of  self-indulgence  weakens  or  lowers  his  pious 
and  reflective  tone.  “ Those  are  her  daugh- 
ters,” he  remarks,  making  maudlin  overtures  to 
Mrs.  Todgers  in  memory  of  his  deceased  wife. 
“ Mercy  and  Charity,  Charity  and  Mercy,  not 
unholy  names  I hope.  She  was  beautiful.  She 
had  a small  property.”  When  his  condition  is 
such  that  his  friends  have  to  put  him  to  bed, 
they  are  only  half  down  the  staircase  when  he  is 
seen  to  be  “ fluttering  ” on  the  top  landing,  de- 
siring to  collect  their  sentiments  on  the  nature 
of  human  life.  “ Let  us  be  moral.  Let  us 
contemplate  e.xistencc.”  He  turns  his  old  pupil 
out  of  doors  in  the  altitude  of  blessing  him,  and 
when  he  has  discharged  that  social  thity,  sheds 
a few  tears  in  the  back  gardoi.  No  concciv- 


CHUZZLE  WIT  DISAPPOINTMENTS  AND  CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 


able  position,  action,  or  utterance  finds  him 
without  the  vice  in  which  his  being  is  wholly 
steeped  and  saturated.  In  his  own  house  with 
his  daughters  he  continues  it  to  keep  his  hand 
in  ; and  from  the  mere  habit  of  keeping  up  ap- 
pearances to  himself  falls  into  the  trajr  of  Jonas. 
Thackeray  used  to  say  that  there  was  nothing 
finer  in  rascaldom  than  this  ruin  of  Pecksniff 
by  his  son-in-law  at  the  very  moment  when  the 
oily  hypocrite  believes  himself  to  be  achieving 
his  masterpiece  of  dissembling  over  the  more 
vulgar  avowed  ruffian.  “‘Jonas!’  cried  Mr. 
Pecksniff  much  affected,  ‘ I am  not  a diplo- 
matical  character ; my  heart  is  in  my  hand. 
By  far  the  greater  part  of  the  inconsiderable 
savings  I have  accumulated  in  the  course  of — I 
hope — a not  dishonourable  or  useless  career,  is 
already  given,  devised,  or  bequeathed  (correct 
me,  my  dear  Jonas,  if  I am  technically  wrong), 
with  expressions  of  confidence  which  I will  not 
repeat ; and  in  securities  which  it  is  unnecessary 
to  mention  ; to  a person  whom  I cannot,  whom 
I will  not,  whom  I need  not  name.’  Here  he 
gave  the  hand  of  his  son-in-law  a fervent 
squeeze,  as  if  he  would  have  added,  ‘ God 
bless  you : be  very  careful  of  it  when  you  get 
it!”’ 

Certainly  Dickens  thus  far  had  done  nothing 
of  which,  as  in  this  novel,  the  details  were  filled 
in  with  such  incomparable  skill;  where  the  wealth 
of  comic  circumstance  was  lavished  in  such  over- 
flowing abundance  on  single  types  of  character ; 
of  where  generally,  as  throughout  the  story,  the 
intensity  of  his  observation  of  individual  humours 
and  vices  had  taken  so  many  varieties  of  imagi- 
native form.  Everything  in  Chiizzlewit  indeed 
had  grown  under  treatment,  as  will  be  commonly 
the  case  in  the  handling  of  a man  of  genius,  who 
never  knows  where  any  given  conception  may 
lead  him,  out  of  the  wealtlr  of  resource  in  de- 
velopment and  incident  which  it  has  itself  created. 
“ As  to  the  w'ay,”  he  wrote  to  me  of  its  two  most 
prominent  figures,  as  soon  as  all  their  capabilities 
were  revealed  to  him,  “ as  to  the  way  in  which 
these  characters  have  opened  out,  that  is  to  me 
one  of  the  most  surprising  processes  of  the  mind 
in  this  soft  of  invention.  Given  what  one  knows, 
what  one  does  not  know  springs  up ; and  I am 
as  absolutely  certain  of  its  being  true,  as  I am  of 
the  law  of  gravitation — if  such  a thing  be  pos- 
sible, more  so.”  The  remark  displays  exactly 
what  in  all  his  important  characters  was  the  very 
process  of  creation  with  him. 

Nor  was  it  in  the  treatment  only  of  his  pre- 
sent fiction,  but  also  in  its  subject  or  design, 
that  he  had  gone  higher  than  in  preceding  efforts. 
Broadly  what  he  aimed  at,  he  would  have  ex- 


pressed on  the  title-page  if  I had  not  dissuaded 
him,  by  printing  there  as  its  motto  a verse  altered 
from  that  prologue  of  his  own  composition  to 
which  I have  formerly  referred  : “ Your  homes 
the  scene,  yourselves  the  actors,  here  ! ” Debtors’ 
prisons,  parish  Bumbledoms,  Yorkshire  schools, 
were  vile  enough,  but  something  much  more 
pestiferous  was  now  the  aim  of  his  satire  ; and 
he  had  not  before  so  decisively  shown  vigour, 
daring,  or  discernment  of  what  lay  within  reach 
of  his  art,  as  in  taking  such  a person  as  Peck- 
sniff for  the  central  figure  in  a tale  of  existing 
life.  Setting  him  up  as  the  glass  through  which 
to  view  the  groups  around  him,  we  are  not  the 
less  moved  to  a hearty  detestation  of  the  social 
vices  they  exhibit,  and  pre-eminently  of  selfish- 
ness in  all  its  forms,  because  we  see  more  plainly 
than  ever  that  there  is  but  one  vice  which  is  quite 
irremediable.  The  elder  Chuzzlewits  are  bad 
enough,  but  they  bring  their  self  inflicted  punish- 
ments ; the  Jonases  and  Tigg  Montagues  are 
execrable,  but  the  law  has  its  halter  and  its 
penal  servitude;  the  Moulds  and  Gamps  have 
plague -bearing  breaths,  from  which  sanitary 
wisdom  may  clear  us ; but  from  the  sleek, 
smiling,  crawling  abomination  of  a Pecksniff 
there  is  no  help  but  selfhelp.  Every  man’s 
hand  should  be  against  him,  for  his  is  against 
every  man ; and,  as  Mr.  Taine  very  wisely  warns 
us,  the  virtues  have  most  need  to  be  careful  that 
they  do  not  make  themselves  panders  to  his 
vice.  It  is  an  amiable  weakness  to  put  the  best 
face  on  the  worst  things,  but  there  is  none  more 
dangerous.  There  is  nothing  so  common  as  the 
mistake  of  Tom  Pinch,  and  nothing  so  rare  as 
his  excuses. 

The  art  with  which  that  delightful  character 
is  placed  at  Mr.  Pecksniff’s  elbow  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  story,  and  the  help  he  gives  to  set 
fairly  afloat  the  falsehood  he  innocently  believes, 
contribute  to  an  excellent  management  of  this  part 
of  the  design ; and  the  same  prodigal  wealth  of 
invention  and  circumstance  which  gives  its  higher 
imaginative  stamp  to  the  book,  appears  as  vividly 
in  its  lesser  as  in  its  leading  figures.  There  are 
wonderfully  suggestive  touches  in  the  household 
of  Mould  the  undertaker ; and  in  the  vivid  pic- 
ture presented  to  us  by  one  of  Mrs.  Gamp’s 
recollections,  we  are  transported  to  the  youthful 
games  of  his  children.  “ The  sweet  creeturs  ! 
playing  at  berryins  down  in  the  shop,  and  fol- 
lerin’  the  order-book  to  its  long  home  in  the 
iron  safe  ! ” The  American  scenes  themselves 
are  not  more  full  of  life  and  fun  and  freshness, 
and  do  not  oontribute  more  to  the  general  hilarity, 
than  the  cockney  group  at  Todgers’s ; which  is 
itself  a little  world  of  the  qualities  and  humours 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


144 


that  make  up  the  interest  of  human  life,  whether 
high  or  low,  vulgar  or  fine,  filled  in  with  a master’s 
hand.  Here,  in  a mere  byestroke  as  it  were,  are 
the  finest  things  of  the  earlier  books  superadded 
to  the  new  and  higher  achievement  that  distin- 
guished the  later  productions.  No  part  indeed 
of  the  execution  of  this  remarkable  novel  is  in- 
ferior. Young  Bailey  and  Sweedlepipes  are  in 
the  front  rank  of  his  humorous  creations  ; and 
poor  Mrs.  Todgers,  worn  but  not  depraved  by 
the  cares  of  gravy  and  solicitudes  of  her  esta- 
blishment, with  calculation  shining  out  of  one 
eye  but  with  kindliness  and  good-heartedness 
still  beaming  in  the  other,  is  quite  as  perfect  a 
picture  in  her  way  as  even  the  portentous  Mrs. 
Gamp  with  her  grim  grotesqueness,  her  filthy 
habits  and  foul  enjoyments,  her  thick  and  damp 
but  most  amazing  utterances,  her  moist  clammy 
functions,  her  pattens,  her  bonnet,  her  bundle, 
and  her  umbrella.  But  such  prodigious  claims 
must  have  a particular  mention. 

This  world-famous  personage  has  passed  into 
and  become  one  with  the  language,  which  her 
own  parts  of  speech  have  certainly  not  exalted 
or  refined.  To  none  even  of  Dickens’s  cha- 
racters has  there  been  such  a run  of  popularity  ; 
and  she  will  remain  among  the  everlasting  tri- 
umphs of  fiction,  a superb  masterpiece  of  Eng- 
lish humour.  What  Mr.  Mould  says  of  her  in 
his  enthusiasm,  that  she’s  the  sort  of  woman  one 
would  bury  for  nothing,  and  do  it  neatly  too, 
every  one  feels  to  be  an  appropriate  tribute ; 
and  this,  by  a most  happy  inspiration,  is  exactly 
what  the  genius  to  whom  she  owes  her  existence 
did,  when  he  called  her  into  life,  to  the  foul 
original  she  was  taken  from.  That  which  en- 
duringly  stamped  upon  his  page  its  most  mirth- 
moving  figure,  had  stamped  out  of  English  life 
for  ever  one  of  its  disgraces.  The  mortal  Mrs. 
Gamp  was  handsomely  put  into  her  grave,  and 
only  the  immortal  Mrs.  Gamp  survived.  Age 
will  not  wither  this  one,  nor  custom  stale  her 
variety;  for  here  she  has  a special  advantage 
over  even  Mr.  Pecksniff  himself.  She  has  a 
friend,  an  alter  ego,  whose  kind  of  service  to 
her  is  expressed  by  her  first  utterance  in  the 
story ; and  with  this,  which  introduces  her,  we 
may  leave  her  most  fitly.  “ ‘ Mrs.  Harris,’  I 
says,  at  the  very  last  case  as  ever  I acted  in, 
which  it  was  but  a young  person,  ‘ Mrs.  Harris,’ 
I says,  ‘ leave  the  bottle  on  the  chimley-piece, 
and  don’t  ask  me  to  take  none,  but  let  me  put 
my  lips  to  it  when  I am  so  dispoged.’  ‘ Mrs. 
Gamp,’  she  says  in  answer,  ‘ if  ever  there  was  a 
sober  creetur  to  be  got  at  eighteen  pence  a day 
for  working  people,  and  three  and  six  for  gentle- 
folks— night  watching,’  said  Mrs.  Gamp  with 


emphasis,  ‘ being  a extra  charge — you  are  that 
inwallable  person.’  ‘ Mrs.  Harris,’  I says  to  her, 
‘ don’t  name  the  charge,  for  if  I could  afford  to 
lay  all  my  fellow-creeturs  out  for  nothink,  I would 
gladly  do  it,  sich  is  the  love  I bears  ’em.’  ” To 
this  there  is  nothing  to  be  added,  except  that  in 
the  person  of  that  astonishing  friend  every  phase 
of  fun  and  comedy  in  the  character  is  repeated, 
under  fresh  conditions  of  increased  appreciation 
and  enjoyment.  By  the  exuberance  of  comic 
invention  which  gives  his  distinction  to  Mr. 
Pecksniff,  Mrs.  Gamp  profits  quite  as  much ; 
the  same  wealth  of  laughable  incident  which 
surrounds  that  worthy  man  is  upon  her  heaped 
to  overflowing  ; but  over  and  above  this,  by  the 
additional  invention  of  Mrs.  Harris,  it  is  all  re- 
produced, acted  over  with  renewed  spirit,  and 
doubled  and  quadrupled  in  her  favour.  This  on 
the  whole  is  the  happiest  stroke  of  humorous  art 
in  all  the  writings  of  Dickens. 


But  this  is  a chapter  of  disappointments,  and 
I have  now  to  state,  that  as  Martin  Chuzzlewit' s 
success  was  to  seem  to  him  at  first  only  distant 
and  problematical,  so  even  the  prodigious  imme- 
diate success  of  the  Christmas  Carol  itself  was 
not  to  be  an  unmitigated  pleasure.  Never  had 
little  book  an  outset  so  full  of  brilliancy  of  pro- 
mise. Published  but  a few  days  before  Christ- 
mas, it  was  hailed  on  every  side  with  enthusiastic 
greeting.  The  first  edition  of  six  thousand  copies 
was  sold  the  first  day,  and  on  the  third  of  Janu- 
ary 1844  he  wrote  to  me  that  “two  thousand  of 
the  three  printed  for  second  and  third  editions 
are  already  taken  by  the  trade.”  But  a very  few 
weeks  were  to  pass  before  the  darker  side  of  the 
picture  came.  “ Such  a night  as  I have  passed  !” 
he  wrote  to  me  on  Saturday  morning  the  loth 
of  February.  “ I really  believed  I should  never 
get  up  again,  until  I had  passed  through  all  the 
horrors  of  a fever.  I found  the  Carol  accounts 
awaiting  me,  and  they  were  the  cause  of  it.  The 
first  six  thousand  copies  show  a profit  of  ;^23o  ! 
And  the  last  four  will  yield  as  much  more.  I 
had  set  my  heart  and  soul  upon  a I’housand, 
clear.  What  a wonderful  thing  it  is,  that  such  a 
great  success  should  occasion  me  such  intole- 
rable anxiety  and  disappointment  ! My  year’s 
bills,  unpaid,  are  so  terrific,  that  all  the  energy 
and  determination  I can  possibly  exert  will  be 
required  to  clear  me  before  I go  abroad  ; which, 
if  next  June  come  and  find  me  alive,  I shall  do. 
Good  Heaven,  if  I had  only  taken  heart  a year 
ago  ! Do  come  soon,  as  1 am  very  anxious  to 
talk  with  you.  We  can  send  round  to  Mac  after 
you  arrive,  and  tell  him  to  join  us  at  Hampstead 
or  elsewhere.  I was  so  utterly  knoeked  down. 




CHUZZLEWIT  DISAPPOINTMENTS  AND  CHRISTMAS  CAROL.  145 

last  night,  that  I came  up  to  the  contemplation 
of  all  these  things  quite  bold  this  morning.  If  I 
can  let  the  house  for  this  season,  I will  be  off  to 
some  seaside  place  as  soon  as  a tenant  offers.  I 
am  not  afraid,  if  I reduce  my  exjjenses  ; but  if 
I do  not,  I shall  be  ruined  past  all  mortal  hope 
of  redemption.” 

The  ultimate  result  was  that  his  publishers 
were  changed,  and  the  immediate  result  that  his 
departure  for  Italy  became  a settled  thing;  but 
a word  may  be  said  on  these  Carol  accounts 
before  mention  is  made  of  his  new  publishing 
arrangements.  Want  of  judgment  had  been 
shown  in  not  adjusting  the  expenses  of  produc- 
tion with  a more  equable  regard  to  the  selling 
price,  but  even  as  it  was,  before  the  close  of  the 
year,  he  had  received  ;£’]26  from  a sale  of  fifteen 
thousand  copies ; and  the  difference  between 
this  and  the  amount  realised  by  the  same  pro- 
portion of  the  sale  of  the  successor  to  the  Carol, 
undoubtedly  justified  him  in  the  discontent  now 
expressed.  Of  that  second  sale,  as  well  as  of 
the  third  and  fourth,  more  than  double  the  num- 
bers of  the  Carol  were  at  once  sold,  and  of 
course  there  was  no  complaint  of  any  want  of 
success ; but  the  truth  really  was,  as  to  all  the 
Christmas  stories  issued  in  this  form,  that  the 
price  charged,  while  too  large  for  the  public 
addressed  by  them,  was  too  little  to  remunerate 
their  outlay;  and  when  in  later  years  he  put 
forth  similar  fancies  for  Christmas,  charging  for 
them  fewer  pence  than  the  shillings  required  for 
these,  he  counted  his  purchasers,  with  fairly 
corresponding  gains  to  himself,  not  by  tens  but 
by  hundreds  of  thousands.  The  sale  of  one  of 
those  pieces,  five  years  before  his  death,  went 
up  in  its  first  week  to  250,000. 

It  was  necessary  now  that  negotiations  should 
be  resumed  with  his  printers,  but  before  any 
step  was  taken  Messrs.  Chapman  and  Hall  were 
informed  of  his  intention  not  to  open  fresh 
publishing  relations  with  them  after  Chiizzlewit 
should  have  closed.  Then  followed  deliberations 
and  discussions,  many  and  grave,  which  settled 
themselves  at  last  into  the  form  of  an  agreement 
with  Messrs.  Bradbury  and  Evans  executed  on 
the  first  of  June  1844 ; by  which,  upon  advance 
made  to  him  of  ^2800,  he  assigned  to  them  a 
fourth  share  in  whatever  he  might  write  during 
the  next  ensuing  eight  years,  to  which  the  agree- 
ment was  to  be  strictly  limited.  There  were  the 
usual  protecting  clauses,  but  no  interest  was  to 
be  paid,  and  no  obligations  were  imposed  as  to 
what  works  should  be  written,  if  any,  or  the 
form  of  them ; the  only  farther  stipulation  hav- 
ing reference  to  the  event  of  a periodical  being 
undertaken  whereof  Dickens  might  be  only  par- 

tially  editor  or  author,  in  which  case  his  pro- 
prietorship of  copyright  and  profits  was  to  be 
two  thirds  instead  of  three  fourths.  There  was 
an  understanding,  at  the  time  this  agreement 
was  signed,  that  a successor  to  the  Carol  would 
be  ready  for  the  Christmas  of  1844;  but  no 
other  promise  was  asked  or  made  in  regard  to 
any  other  book,  nor  had  he  himself  decided  what 
form  to  give  to  his  experiences  of  Italy,  if  he 
should  even  finally  determine  to  publish  them 
at  all. 

Between  this  agreement  and  Ins  journey  six 
weeks  elapsed,  and  there  were  one  or  two  cha- 
racteristic incidents  before  his  departure ; but 
mention  must  first  be  interposed  of  the  success 
quite  without  alloy  that  also  attended  the  little 
book,  and  carried  off  in  excitement  and  delight 
every  trace  of  doubt  or  misgiving.  “ Blessings  on 
your  kind  heart,”  wrote  Jeffrey  to  the  author  of 
the  Carol.  “ You  should  be  happy  yourself,  for 
you  may  be  sure  you  have  done  more  good  by 
this  little  publication,  fostered  more  kindly  feel- 
ings, and  prompted  more  positive  acts  of  bene- 
ficence, than  can  be  traced  to  all  the  pulpits  and 
confessionals  in  Christendom  since  Christmas 
1842.”  “ Who  can  listen,”  exclaimed  Thackeray, 
“ to  objections  regarding  such  a book  as  this  ? 
It  seems  to  me  a national  benefit,  and  to  every 
man  or  woman  who  reads  it  a personal  kind- 
ness.” Such  praise  expressed  what  men  of 
genius  felt  and  said  : but  the  small  volume  had 
other  tributes,  less  usual  and  not  less  genuine. 
There  poured  upon  its  author  daily,  all  through 
that  Christmas  time,  letters  from  complete  stran- 
gers to  him  which  I remember  reading  with  a 
wonder  of  pleasure  ; not  literary  at  all,  but  of 
the  simplest  domestic  kind  ; of  which  the  general 
burden  was  to  tell  him,  amid  many  confidences, 
about  their  homes,  how  the  Carol  had  come  to 
be  read  aloud  there,  and  was  to  be  kept  upon  a 
little  shelf  by  itself,  and  was  to  do  them  no  end 
of  good.  Anything  more  to  be  said  of  it  will 
not  add  much  to  this. 

There  was  indeed  nobody  that  had  not  some 
interest  in  the  message  of  the  Christmas  Carol. 
It  told  the  selfish  man  to  rid  himself  of  selfish- 
ness ; the  just  man  to  make  himself  generous ; 
and  the  good-natured  man  to  enlarge  the  sphere 
of  his  good  nature.  Its  cheery  voice  of  faith 
and  hope,  ringing  from  one  end  of  the  island  to 
the  other,  carried  pleasant  warning  alike  to  all, 
that  if  the  duties  of  Christmas  were  wanting  no 
good  could  come  of  its  outward  observances ; 
that  it  must  shine  upon  the  cold  hearth  and 
warm  it,  and  into  the  sorrowful  heart  and  com- 
fort it ; that  it  must  be  kindness,  benevolence, 
charity,  mercy,  and  forbearance,  or  its  plum 

146 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICIvENS. 


pudding  would  turn  to  bile,  and  its  roast  beef 
be  indigestible.  Nor  could  any  man  have  said 
it  with  the  same  appropriateness  as  Dickens. 
What  was  marked  in  him  to  the  last  was  manifest 
now.  He  had  identified  himself  with  Christmas 
fancies.  Its  life  and  spirits,  its  humour  in  riotous 
abundance,  of  right  belonged  to  him.  Its  ima- 
ginations as  well  as  its  kindly  thoughts,  were 
his ; and  its  privilege  to  light  up  with  some  sort 
of  comfort  the  squalidest  places,  he  had  made 
his  own.  Christmas  day  was  not  more  social  or 
welcome  : New  Year’s  Day  not  more  new : 
Twelfth  Night  not  more  full  of  characters.  The 
duty  of  diffusing  enjoyment  had  never  been 
taught  by  a more  abundant,  mirthful,  thought- 
ful, ever-seasonable  writer. 

Something  also  is  to  be  said  of  the  spirit  of 
the  book,  and  of  others  like  it  that  followed, 
which  will  not  anticipate  special  allusions  to  be 
made  hereafter.  No  one  was  more  intensely 
fond  than  Dickens  of  old  nursery  tales,  and  he 
had  a secret  delight  in  feeling  that  he  was  here 
only  giving  them  a higher  form.  The  social 
and  manly  virtues  he  desired  to  teach,  were  to 
him  not  less  the  charm  of  the  ghost,  the  goblin, 
and  the  fairy  fancies  of  his  childhood  j however 
rudely  set  forth  in  those  earlier  days.  What 
now  were  to  be  conquered  r\  ere  the  more  formid- 
able dragons  and  giants  that  had  their  places  at 
our  own  hearths,  and  the  weapons  to  be  used 
were  of  a finer  than  the  “ ice-brook’s  temper.” 
With  brave  and  strong  restraints,  what  is  evil  in 
ourselves  was  to  be  subdued ; with  warm  and 
gentle  sympathies,  what  is  bad  or  unreclaimed 
in  others  was  to  be  redeemed  ; the  Beauty  was  to 
embrace  the  Beast,  as  in  the  divinest  of  all  those 
fables ; the  star  was  to  rise  out  of  the  ashes,  as 
in  our  much-loved  Cinderella  ; and  we  were  to 
play  the  Valentine  with  our  wilder  brothers,  and 
bring  them  back  with  brotherly  care  to  civiliza- 
tion and  happiness.  Nor  is  it  to  be  doubted,  I 
think,  that  in  that  largest  sense  of  benefit,  great 
public  and  private  service  was  done ; positive, 
earnest,  practical  good  3 by  the  extraordinary 
popularity,  and  nearly  universal  acceptance, 
which  attended  these  little  holiday  volumes. 
They  carried  to  countless  firesides,  with  new 
enjoyment  of  the  season,  better  apprehension  of 
its  claims  and  obligations ; they  mingled  grave 
with  glad  thoughts,  much  to  the  advantage  of 
both  ; what  seemed  almost  too  remote  to  meddle 
with  they  brought  within  reach  of  the  charities, 
and  what  was  near  they  touched  with  a dearer 
tenderness  3 they  comforted  the  generous,  re- 
buked the  sordid,  cured  folly  by  kindly  ridicule 
and  comic  humour,  and,  saying  to  their  readers, 
Thus  you  have  done,  but  it  were  better  Thus,  may 


for  some  have  realised  the  philosopher’s  famous 
experience,  and  by  a single  fortunate  thought 
revised  the  whole  manner  of  a life.  Literary 
criticism  here  is  a second-rate  thing,  and  the 
reader  may  be  spared  such  discoveries  as  it 
might  have  made  in  regard  to  the  Christmas 
Carol. 


III. 

YEAR  OF  DEPARTURE  FOR  ITALY. 

1844. 

ND  now,  before  accompanying 
Dickens  on  his  Italian  travel,  one 
or  two  parting  incidents  will  re- 
ceive illustration  from  his  letters.  A 
thoughtful  little  poem  written  during 
the  past  summer  for  Lady  Blessington 
has  been  quoted  on  a previous  page  : 
and  it  may  remind  me  to  say  here 
what  warmth  of  regard  he  had  for  her,  and  for 
all  the  inmates  of  Gore-house  3 how  uninter- 
ruptedly joyous  and  pleasurable  were  his  as- 
sociations with  them  3 and  what  valued  help 
they  now  gave  in  his  preparations  for  Italy. 
The  poem,  as  we  have  seen,  was  written  during 
a visit  made  in  Yorkshire  to  the  house  of  Mr. 
Smithson,  already  named  as  the  partner  of  his 
early  companion,  Mr.  Mitton  3 and  this  visit  he 
repeated  in  sadder  circumstances  during  the 
present  year,  when  (April  1844)  attended 
Mr.  Smithson’s  funeral.  With  members  or  con- 
nections of  the  family  of  this  friend,  his  inter- 
course long  continued. 

In  the  previous  February,  on  the  26th  and 
28  th  respectively,  he  had  taken  the  chair  at  two 
great  meetings,  in  Liverpool  of  the  Meclianics’ 
Institution,  and  in  Birmingham  of  the  Poly- 
technic Institution,  to  which  reference  is  made 
by  him  in  a letter  of  the  21st.  I quote  the 
allusion  because  it  shows  thus  early  the  sensitive 
regard  to  his  position  as  a man  of  letters,  and 
his  scrupulous  consideration  for  the  feelings  as 
well  as  interest  of  the  class,  which  he  manifested 
in  many  various  and  often  greatly  self-sacrificing 
ways  all  through  his  life.  “Advise  me  on  the 
following  point.  And  as  I must  write  to-night, 
having  already  lost  a post,  advise  me  by  bearer. 
This  Liverpool  Institution,  which  is  wealthy  and 
has  a high  grammar-school  the  masters  of  which 
receive  in  salaries  upwards  of  ^2000  a year 
(indeed  its  extent  horrifies  me  3 I am  struggling 
through  its  papers  this  morning),  writes  me  yes- 
terday by  its  secretary  a business  letter  about 
the  order  of  the  proceedings  on  Monday  3 and 


YEAR  OF  DEPARTURE  FOR  ITALY. 


it  begins  thus.  ‘ I beg  to  send  you  prefixed, 
' with  the  best  respects  of  our  committee,  a bank 

I order  for  twenty  pounds  in  payment  of  the  ex- 

' penses  contingent  on  your  visit  to  Liverpool.’ — 
! And  there,  sure  enough,  it  is.  Now  my  impulse 
' was,  and  is,  decidedly  to  return  it.  Twenty 
pounds  is  not  of  moment  to  me ; and  any  sacri- 
. flee  of  independence  is  worth  it  twenty  times’ 
twenty  times  told.  But  haggling  in  my  mind  is 
a doubt  whether  that  would  be  proper,  and  not 
boastful  (in  an  inexplicable  way) ; and  whether 
as  an  author,  I have  a right  to  put  myself  on  a 
basis  which  the  professors  of  literature  in  other 
forms  connected  with  the  Institution  cannot  afford 
I to  occupy.  Don’t  you  see  ? But  of  course  you 
' do.  The  case  stands  thus.  The  Manchester 
\ Institution,  being  in  debt,  appeals  to  me  as  it 
were  in  forma  pauperis,  and  makes  no  such  pro- 
' vision  as  I have  named.  The  Birmingham  In- 
! stitution,  just  struggling  into  life  with  great  diffi- 
! culty,  applies  to  me  on  the  same  grounds.  But 
the  Leeds  people  (thriving)  write  to  me,  making 
the  expenses  a distinct  matter  of  business;  and 
the  Liverpool,  as  a point  of  delicacy,  say  no- 
thing about  it  to  the  last  minute,  and  then  send 
the  money.  Now,  what  in  the  name  of  good- 
ness ought  I to  do?^ — I am  as  much  puzzled 
OTth  the  cheque  as  Colonel  Jack  was  with  his 
gold.  If  it  would  have  settled  the  matter  to  put 
it  in  the  fire  yesterday,  I should  certainly  have 
done  it.  Your  opinion  is  requested.  I think  I 
shall  have  grounds  for  a very  good  speech  at 
Brummagem;  but  I am  not  sure  about  Liver- 
pool ; having  misgivings  of  over-gentility.”  My 
opinion  was  clearly  for  sending  the  money  back, 
which  accordingly  was  done. 

Both  speeches,  duly  delivered  to  enthusiastic 
listeners  at  the  places  named,  were  good,  and 
both,  with  suitable  variations,  had  the  same 
theme  : telling  his  popular  audience  in  Birming- 
ham that  the  principle  of  their  institute,  educa- 
tion comprehensive  and  unsectarian,  was  the 
only  safe  one,  for  that  without  danger  no  society 
could  go  on  punishing  men  for  preferring  vice 
to  virtue  without  giving  them  the  means  of 
knowing  what  virtue  was ; and  reminding  his 
genteeler  audience  in  Liverpool,  that  if  happily 
they  had  been  themselves  well  taught,  so  much 
the  more  should  they  seek  to  extend  the  benefit 
to  all,  since,  whatever  the  precedence  due  to 
rank,  wealth,  or  intellect,  there  was  yet  a nobility 
beyond  them,  expressed  unaffectedly b3'-the  poet’s 
verse  and  in  the  power  of  education  to  confer. 

Howe’er  it  be,  it  seems  to  me, 

’Tis  only  noble  to  be  good  ; 

True  hearts  are  more  than  coronets, 

And  simple  faith  than  Norman  blood. 


He  underwent  some  suffering,  which  he  might 
have  spared  himself,  at  his  return.  “ I saw  the 
Carol  last  night,”  he  wrote  to  me  of  a dramatic  ’ 
performance  of  the  little  story  at  the  Adelphi. 
“Better  than  usual,  and  Wright  seems  to  enjoy 
Bob  Cratchit,  but  heart-breaking  to  me.  Oh 
Heaven  ! if  any  forecast  of  this  was  ever  in  my 
mind  ! Yet  O.  Smith  was  drearily  better  than  I 
expected.  It  is  a great  comfort  to  have  that 
kind  of  meat  underdone ; and  his  face  is  quite 
perfect.”  Of  what  he  suffered  from  these  adap- 
tations of  his  books,  multiplied  remorselessly  at 
every  theatre,  I have  forborne  to  speak,  but  it 
Avas  the  subject  of  complaint  with  him  inces- 
santly ; and  more  or  less  satisfied  as  he  was  with 
individual  performances,  such  as  Mr.  Yates’s 
Quilp  or  Mantalini  and  Mrs.  Keeley’s  Smike  or 
Dot,  there  was  only  one,  that  of  Barnaby  Rudge 
’oy  the  Miss  Fortescue  who  became  afterwards 
Lady  Gardner,  on  which  I ever  heard  him  dwell  | 
with  a thorough  liking.  It  is  true  that  to  the 
dramatizations  of  his  next  and  other  following 
Christmas  stories  he  gave  help  himself ; but, 
even  then,  all  such  efforts  to  assist  special  repre- 
sentations were  mere  attempts  to  render  more 
tolerable  what  he  had  no  power  to  prevent,  and, 
Avith  a feAV  rare  exceptions,  they  Avere  never  very 
successful.  Another  and  graver  Avrong  Avas  the 
piracy  of  his  Aviitings,  every  one  of  Avhich  had 
been  reproduced  Avith  merely  such  colourable 
changes  of  title,  incidents,  and  names  of  charac- 
ters, as  AA'ere  believed  to  be  sufficient  to  evade 
the  laAv  and  adapt  them  to  ‘ penny  ’ purchasers. 

So  shamelessly  had  this  been  going  on  ever 
since  the  days  of  Pickunck,  in  so  many  out- 
rageous Avays  and  Avith  all  but  impunity,  that  a 
course  repeatedly  urged  by  Talfourd  and  myself 
Avas  at  last  taken  in  the  present  year  Avith  the 
Christmas  Carol  and  the  Chuzzlewit  pirates. 
Upon  a case  of  such  peculiar  flagrancy,  hoAvever, 
that  the  vice-chancellor  Avould  not  even  hear 
Dickens’s  counsel;  and  Avhat  it  cost  our  dear 
friend  Talfourd  to  suppress  his  speech  exceeded 
by  very  much  the  labour  and  pains  Avith  Avhich 
he  had  prepared  it.  “The  pirates,”  Avrote 
Dickens  to  me,  after  leaving  the  court  on  the 
i8th  of  January,  “are  beaten  flat.  They  are 
bruised,  bloody,  battered,  smashed,  squelched, 
and  utterly  undone.  Knight  Bruce  AA'ould  not 
hear  Talfourd,  but  instantly  gave  judgment.  He 
had  interrupted  Anderton  constantly  by  asking 
him  to  produce  a passage  Avhich  Avas  not  an 
expanded  or  contracted  idea  from  my  book. 
And  at  every  successive  passage  he  cried  out, 

‘ That  is  Mr.  Dickens’s  case.  Find  another  ! ’ He 
said  that  there  Avas  not  a shadoAV  of  doubt  upon 
the  matter.  That  there  AA’as  no  authority  Avhich 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


148 


would  bear  a construction  in  their  favour;  the 
piracy  going  beyond  all  previous  instances. 
They  might  mention  it  again  in  a week,  he  said, 
if  they  liked,  and  might  have  an  issue  if  they 
pleased ; but  they  would  probably  consider  it 
unnecessary  after  that  strong  expression  of  his 
opinion.  Of  course  I will  stand  by  what  we 
have  agreed  as  to  the  only  terms  of  compromise 
with  the  printers.  I am  detei mined  that  I will 
have  an  apology  for  their  affidavits.  The  other 
men  may  pay  their  costs  and  get  out  of  it,  but 
I will  stick  to  my  friend  the  author.”  Two  days 
later  he  wrote  : “ The  farther  affidavits  put  in 
by  way  of  extenuation  by  the  printing  rascals 
are  rather  strong,  and  give  one  a pretty  correct 
idea  of  what  the  men  must  be  who  hold  on  by 
the  heels  of  literature.  Oh  ! the  agony  of  Tal- 
fourd  at  Knight  Bruce’s  not  hearing  him  ! He 
had  sat  up  till  three  in  the  morning,  he  says, 
preparing  his  speech ; and  would  have  done  all 
kinds  of  things  with  the  affidavits.  It  certainly 
was  a splendid  subject.  We  ha.ve  heard  nothing 
from  the  vagabonds  yet.  I once  thought  of 
printing  the  affidavits  without  a word  of  com- 
ment, and  sewing  them  up  with  Chiizzlewit. 
Talfourd  is  strongly  disinclined  to  compromise 
with  the  printers  on  any  terms.  In  which  case 
it  would  be  referred  to,  the  master  to  ascertain 
what  profits  had  been  made  by  the  piracy,  and 
to  order  the  same  to  be  paid  to  me.  But  wear 
and  tear  of  law  is  my  consideration.”  The 
undertaking  to  which  he  had  at  last  to  submit 
was,  that  upon  ample  public  apology,  and  pay- 
ment of  all  costs,  the  offenders  should  be  let  go  ; 
but  the  real  result  was  that,  after  infinite  vexa- 
tion and  trouble,  he  had  himself  to  pay  all  the 
costs  incurred  on  his  own  behalf;  and,  a couple 
of  years  later,  upon  repetition  of  the  wrong  he 
had  suffered  in  so  gross  a form  that  proceedings 
were  again  advised  by  Talfourd  and  others,  he 
wrote  to  me  from  Switzerland  the  condition  of 
mind  to  which  his  experience  had  brought  him. 
“ My  feeling  about  the is  the  feeling  com- 

mon, I suppose,  to  three  fourths  of  the  reflecting 
part  of  the  community  in  our  happiest  of  all 
possible  countries  ; and  that  is,  that  it  is  better 
to  suffer  a great  wrong  than  to  have  recourse  to 
the  much  greater  wrong  of  the  law.  I shall  not 
■easily  forget  the  expense,  and  anxiety,  and  hor- 
rible injustice  of  the  Carol  case,  wherein,  in 
asserting  the  plainest  right  on  earth,  I was  really 
treated  as  if  I were  the  robber  instead  of  tlie 
robbed.  Upon  the  whole,  I certainly  would 
much  rather  not  proceed.  What  do  you  think 
of  sending  in  a grave  protest  against  what  has 
been  done  in  this  case,  on  account  of  the  im- 
mense amount  of  piracy  to  which  I am  daily 


exposed,  and  because  I have  been  already  met 
in  the  court  of  chancery  with  the  legal  doctrine 
that  silence  under  such  wrongs  barred  my 
remedy : to  which  Talfourd’s  written  opinion 
might  be  appended  as  proof  that  we  stopped 
under  no  discouragement.  It  is  useless  to  affect 
that  I don’t  know  I have  a morbid  susceptibility 
of  exasperation,  to  which  the  meanness  and  bad- 
ness of  the  law  in  such  a matter  would  be  stinging 
in  the  last  degree.  And  I know  of  nothing  that 
could  come,  even  of  a successful  action,  which 
would  be  worth  the  mental  trouble  and  disturb- 
ance it  would  cost.”  * 

A few  notes  of  besetting  temptations  during 
his  busiest  days  at  Chiizzlciuit,  one  taken  from 
each  of  the  first  four  months  of  the  year  when  he 
was  working  at  its  masterly  closing  scenes,  will 
amusingly  exhibit,  side  by  side,  his  powers  of 
resistance  and  capacities  of  enjoyment.  “ I 
had  written  you  a line”  (i6th  of  January), 
“ pleading  Jonas  and  Mrs.  Gamp,  but  this  frosty 
day  tempts  me  sorely.  I am  distractingly  late, 
but  I look  at  the  sky,  think  of  Hampstead,  and 
feel  hideously  tempted.  Don’t  come  with  Mac, 

* The  reader  may  be  amused  if  1 add  in  a note  what 
he  said  of  the  pirates  in  those  earlier  days  when  grave 
matters  touched  him  less  gravely.  On  the  eve  of  the 
fust  number  of  Nickleby  he  had  issued  a proclamation. 
“ Whereas  we  are  the  only  true  and  lawful  Boz.  And 
whereas  it  hath  been  reported  to  us,  who  are  commencing 
a new  work,  that  some  dishonest  dullards  resident  in  the 
by-streets  and  cellars  of  this  town  impose  upon  the  un- 
wary and  credulous,  by  producing  cheap  and  wretched 
imitations  of  our  delectable  works.  And  whereas  we 
derive  but  small  comfort  under  this  injury  from  the  know- 
ledge that  the  dishonest  dullards  aforesaid  cannot,  by 
reason  of  their  mental  smallness,  follow  near  our  heels, 
but  are  constrained  to  creep  along  by  dirty  and  little  fte- 
quented  ways,  at  a most  respectful  and  humble  distance 
behind.  And  whereas,  in  like  manner,  as  some  other 
vermin  are  not  worth  the  killing  for  the  sake  of  their  car- 
cases, so  these  kennel  pirates  are  not  worth  the  powder 
and  shot  of  the  law,  inasmuch  as  whatever  damages  they 
may  commit  they  are  in  no  condition  to  pay  any.  This 
is  to  give  notice,  that  we  have  at  length  devised  a mode 
of  execution  for  them,  so  summary  and  terrible,  that  if 
any  ganger  gangs  thereof  presume  to  hoist  but  one  shred 
of  the  colours  of  the  good  ship  Nickleby,  we  will  hang 
them  on  gibbets  so  lofty  and  enduring  that  their  remains 
shall  be  a monument  of  our  just  vengeance  to  all  suc- 
ceeding ages  ; and  it  shall  not  lie  in  the  power  of  any 
lord  high  admiral,  on  earth,  to  cause  them  to  be  taken 
down  again.”  The  last  paragraph  of  the  proclamation 
informed  the  potentates  of  I'aternoster-row,  that  from 
the  then  ensuing  day  of  the  thirtieth  of  March,  until 
farther  notice,  “ we  shall  hold  our  Levees,  as  heretofore, 
on  the  last  evening  but  one  of  every  month,  between  the 
hours  of  seven  and  nine,  at  our  Board  of  Trade,  number 
one  hundred  and  eighty-six  in  the  Strand,  London ; 
where  we  again  request  the  attendance  (in  vast  crowds) 
of  their  accredited  agents  and  airrbassadors.  (ientlcmcn 
to  wear  knots  upon  their  shoulders ; and  patent  cabs  to 
draw  up  with  their  doors  towards  the  grand  entrance,  for 
the  convenience  of  loading.” 


OF  DEPARTURE  EOR  ITALY. 


149 


ami  fetch  me.  I couldn’t  resist  if  you  did.”  In 
ihe  next  (i8th  of  February),  he  is  not  the 
tempted,  but  the  tempter.  “ Stanfield  and  Mac 
have  come  in,  and  we  are  going  to  Hampstead 
to  dinner.  I leave  Betsy  Prig  as  you  know,  so 
don’t  you  make  a scruple  about  leaving  Mrs. 
Harris.  ^Ve  shall  stroll  leisurely  up,  to  give  you 
time  to  join  us,  and  dinner  will  be  on  the  table 
at  Jack  Straw’s  at  four In  the  very  im- 

probable (surely  impossible  ?)  case  of  your  not 
coming,  we  will  call  on  you  at  a quarter  before 
eight,  to  go  to  the  ragged  school.”  The  next 
(5th  of  March)  shows  him  in  yielding  mood, 
and  pitying  himself  for  his  infirmity  of  com-^ 
pliance.  “ Sir,  I will — he — he — he — he — he — 
— he — I will  NOT  eat  with  you,  either  at  your 
own  house  or  the  club.  But  the  morning  looks 
bright,  and  a walk  to  Hampstead  would  suit  me 
marvellously.  If  you  should  present  yourself  at 
my  gate  (bringing  the  R.A.’s  along  with  you)  I 
shall  not  be  sapparized.  So  no  more  at  this 
writing  from  poor  Mr.  Dickens.”  But  again 
the  tables  are  turned,  and  he  is  tempter  in  the 
last ; written  on  that  Shakespeare  day  (23rd  of 
April)  which  we  kept  always  as  a festival,  and 
signed  in  character  expressive  of  his  then  present 
unfitness  for  any  of  the  practical  affairs  of  life, 
including  the  very  pressing  business  which  at 
the  moment  ought  to  have  occupied  him, 
namely,  attention  to  the  long-deferred  nuptials 
of  Miss  Charity  Pecksniff.  “ November  blasts  ! 
Why  it's  the  warmest,  most  genial,  most  intensely 
bland,  delicious,  growing,  springy,  songster-of- 
the-grovy,  bursting-forth-of-the-buddy,  day  as 
ever  was.  At  half-past  four  I shall  expect  you. 
Ever,  IModdle.” 

Moddle,  the  sentimental  noodle  hooked  by 
Miss  Pecksniff  who  flies  on  his  proposed  wed- 
ding-day from  the  frightful  prospect  before  him, 
die  reader  of  course  knows;  and  has  perhaps 
admired  for  his  last  superb  outbreak  of  common 
sense.  It  was  a rather  favourite  bit  of  humour 
with  Dickens  : and  I find  it  pleasant  to  think 
diat  he  never  saw  the  description  given  of  it  by 
a trained  and  skilful  French  critic,  who  has  been 
able  to  pass  under  his  review  the  whole  of  Eng- 
lish literature  without  any  apparent  sense  or 
understanding  of  one  of  its  most  important  as 
well  as  richest  elements.  A man  without  the 
perception  of  humour  taking  English  prose  lite- 
rature in  hand,  can  of  course  set  about  it  only 
in  one  way.  Accordingly,  in  Mr.  Taine’s  de- 
cisive judgments  of  our  last  great  humourist, 
which  proceed  upon  a principle  of  psychological 
analysis  which  it  is  only  fair  to  say  he  applies 
impartially  to  everybody,  Pickwick,  Oliver  Tiuist, 
and  The  Old  Curiosity  Shop  are  not  in  any  man- 
Ltfe  of  Charles  Dickens,  ii. 


ner  even  named  or  alluded  to ; Mrs.  Gamp  is 
only  once  mentioned  as  always  talking  of  Mrs. 
Harris,  and  Mr.  Micawber  also  only  once  as 
using  always  the  same  emphatic  phrases  ; the 
largest  extracts  are  taken  from  the  two  books  in 
all  the  Dickens  series  that  are  weakest  on  the 
humorous  side.  Hard  Times  and  the  Chimes; 
Nickleby,  with  its  many  laughter-moving  figures, 
is  dismissed  in  a line  and  a half;  Mr.  Toots, 
Captain  Cuttle,  Susan  Nipper,  Toodles,  and  the 
rest  have  no  place  in  what  is  said  of  Dombey ; 
and,  to  close  with  what  has  caused  and  must 
excuse  my  digression,  Mr.  Augustus  Moddle  is 
introduced  as  a gloomy  maniac  who  makes  us 
laugh  and  makes  us  shudder,  and  as  drawn  so 
truly  for  a madman,  that  though  at  first  sight 
agreeable  he  is  in  reality  horrible  ! 

A month  before  the  letter  subscribed  by 
Dickens  in  the  character,  ^o  happily  unknown  to 
himself,  of  this  gloomy  maniac,  he  had  written 
to  me  from  amidst  his  famous  chapter  in  which 
the  tables  are  turned  on  Pecksniff ; but  here  I 
quote  the  letter  chiefly  for  noticeable  words  at 
its  close.  “ I heard  from  Macready  by  the 
Hibernia.  I have  been  slaving  away  regularly, 
but  the  weather  is  against  rapid  progress.  I 
altered  the  verbal  error,  and  substituted  for  the 
action  you  didn’t  like  some  words  expressive  of 
the  hurry  of  the  scene.  Macready  sums  up 
slavery  in  New  Orleans  in  the  way  of  a gentle 
doubting  on  the  subject,  by  a ‘ but’  and  a dash. 
I believe  it  is  in  New  Orleans  that  the  man  is 
lying  under  sentence  of  death,  who,  not  having 
the  fear  of  God  before  his  eyes,  did  not  deliver 
up  a captive  slave  to  the  torture  ? The  largest 
gun  in  that  country  has  not  burst  yet — but  it 
will.  Heaven  help  us,  too,  from  explosions 
nearer  home  ! I declare  I never  go  into  what 
is  called  ‘society’  that  I am  not  aweary  of  it, 
despise  it,  hate  it,  and  reject  it.  The  more  I 
see  of  its  extraordinary  conceit,  and  its  stupen- 
dous ignorance  of  what  is  passing  out  of  doors, 
the  more  certain  I am  that  it  is  approaching  the 
period  when,  being  incapable  of  reforming  itself, 
it  will  have  to  submit  to  be  reformed  by  others 
off  the  face  of  the  earth.”  Thus  we  see  that  the 
old  radical  leanings  were  again  rather  strong  in 
him  at  present,  and  I may  add  that  he  had 
found  occasional  recent  vent  for  them  by  writing 
in  the  Morning  Chronicle. 

Some  articles  thus  contributed  by  him  having 
set  people  talking,  the  proprietors  of  the  paper 
rather  eagerly  mooted  the  question  what  pay- 
ment he  would  ask  for  contributing  regularly  : 
and  ten  guineas  an  article  was  named.  Very 
sensibly,  however,  the  editor  who  had  succeeded 
his  old  friend  Black  pointed  out  to  him,  that 

419 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICICENS. 


15° 

though  even  that  sum  would  not  be  refused  in 
the  heat  of  the  successful  articles  just  contri- 
buted, yet  (I  quote  his  own  account  in  a letter 
of  the  7th  of  March  1844)  so  much  would 
hardly  be  paid  continuously ; and  thereupon  an 
understanding  was  come  to,  that  he  would  write 
as  a volunteer  and  leave  his  payment  to  be 
adjusted  to  the  results.  “ Then  said  the  editor 
— and  this  I particularly  want  you  to  turn  over 
in  your  mind,  at  leisure— supposing  me  to  go 
abroad,  could  I contemplate  such  a thing  as  the 
■writing  of  a letter  a week  under  any  signature  I 
chose,  with  such  scraps  of  descriptions  and  im- 
pressions  as  suggested  themselves  to  my  mind  ? 
If  sOj  would  I do  it  for  the  Chrouiclc  ? And  if 
•so  again,  what  would  I do  it  for  ? He  thought 
for  such  contributions  Easthope  would  pay  any- 
thing. I told  him  that  the  idea  had  never 
occurred  to  met  *that  I was  afraid  he  did 
not  know  what  the  value  of  such  contributions 
would  be.  He  repeated  what  he  had  said  be- 
fore; and  I promised  to  consider  whether  I 
could  reconcile  it  to  myself  to  write  such  letters 
at  all.  The  pros  and  cons  need  to  be  very  care- 
fully weighed.  I will  not  tell  you  to  which  side  I 
incline,  but  if  we  should  disagree,  or  waver  on  the 
same  points,  we  will  call  Bradbury  and  Evans  to 
the  council.  I think  it  more  than  probable  that 
we  shall  be  of  exactly  the  same  mind,  but  I want 
you  to  be  in  possession  of  the  facts  and  there- 
fore send  you  this  rigmarole.”  The  rigmarole  is 
not  unimportant ; because,  though  we  did  not 
differ  on  the  wisdom  of  saying  No  to  the  Chro- 
nicle, the  “ council”  spoken  of  was  nevertheless 
held,  and  in  it  lay  the  germ  of  another  news- 
paper enterprise  he  permitted  himself  to  engage 
in  twelve  months  later,  to  which  he  would  have 
done  more  wisely  to  have  also  answered  No. 

The  preparation  for  departure  was  now  actively 
going  forward,  and  especially  his  inquiries  for 
two  important  adjuncts  thereto,  a courier  ana  a 
carriage.  As  to  the  latter  it  occurred  to  him 
that  he  might  perhaps  get  for  little  money  “ some 
good  old  shabby  devil  of  a coach-  one  of  those 
vast  phantoms  that  hide  themselves  in  a corner 
of  the  Pantechnicon;”  and  exactly  such  a one 
he  found  there ; sitting  himself  inside  it,  a per- 
fect Sentimental  Traveller,  while  the  managing 
man  told  him  its  history.  “ As  for  comfort— let 
me  see — it  is  about  the  size  of  your  libraiy ; 
with  night-lamps  and  day-lamps  and  pockets  and 
imperials  and  leathern  cellars,  and  the  most  ex- 
traordinary contrivances.  Joking  apart,  it  is  a 
wonderful  machine.  And  when  you  see  it  (if 
you  do  see  it)  you  will  roar  at  it  first,  and  will 
then  proclaim  it  to  be  ‘ perfectly  brilliant,  my 
dear  fellow.’  ” It  was  marked  sixty  pounds  ; he 


got  it  for  five-and-forty ; and  my  own  emotions 
respecting  it  he  had  described  by  anticipation 
quite  correctly.  In  finding  a courier  he  was 
even  more  fortunate ; and  these  successes  were 
followed  by  a third  apparently  very  promising, 
but  in  the  result  less  satisfactory.  His  house 
was  let  to  not  very  careful  people. 

The  tenant  having  offered  herself  for  Devon- 
shire-terrace  unexpectedly,  during  the  last  week 
or  two  of  his  stay  in  England  he  went  into 
temporary  quarters  in  Osnabiirgh-terrace : and 
here  a domestic  difficulty  befell  of  which  the 
mention  may  be  amusing,  when  I have  disposed 
of  an  incident  that  preceded  it  too  characteristic 
for  omission.  The  Mendicity  Society’s  officers 
had  caught  a notorious  begging-letter  writer,  had 
identified  him  as  an  old  offender  against  Dickens 
of  which  proofs  were  found  on  his  person,  and  had  1 
put  matters  in  train  for  his  proper  punishment ; | 

when  the  wretched  creature’s  wife  made  such 
appeal  before  the  case  was  heard  at  the  police-  , 
court,  that  Dickens  broke  down  in  his  character  j 
of  prosecutor,  and  at  the  last  moment,  finding  ' 
what  was  said  of  the  man’s  distress  at  the  time  | 
to  be  true,  relented.  “When  the  Mendicity  ; 
officers  themselves  told  me  the  man  was  in  dis-  | 
tress,  I desired  them  to  suppress  what  they  i ! 
knew  about  him,  and  slipped  out  of  the  bundle  (in  j ; 
the  police-office)  his  first  letter,  which  was  the  j 
greatest  lie  of  all.  For  he  looked  wretched,  and 
his  wife  had  been  waiting  about  the  stieet  to  see  , 
me,  all  the  morning.  It  was  an  exceedingly  bad  . 
case,  however,  and  the  imposition,  all  through,  , j 
very  great  indeed.  Insomuch  that  I could  not  | ; 
setj’  anything  in  his  favour,  even  when  I saw  1 
him.  Yet  I was  not  sorry  that  the  creature 
found  the  loophole  for  escape.  The  officers  had  1 
taken  him  illegally  without  anywarrant;  andieall} 
they  messed  it  all  through,  quite  facetiously.  j 

He  will  himself  also  best  relate  the  small 
domestic  difficulty  into  which  he  fell  in  his  tem- 
porary dwelling,  upon  his  unexpectedly  dis- 
covering it  to  be  unequal  to  the  stiain  of  a 
dinner  party  for  which  invitations  had  gone  out 
just  before  the  sudden  “let”  of  Dcvonshire- 
tcrrace.  The  letter  is  characteristic  in  other 
ways,  or  I should  hardly  have  gone  so  lar  into 
domesticities  here;  and  it  enables  me  to  adtl 
that  with  the  last  on  its  list  of  guests,  Mr.  1 hoinas 
Chapman,  the  chairman  of  Lloyd’s,  he  held  lie- 
quent  kindly  intercourse,  and  that  few  things 
more  absurd  or  unfounded  have  been  inventea 
even  of  Dickens,  than  that  he_  found  any  part  o.  , 
the  original  of  Mr.  Dombey  m Uie  nature,  the  , 
aiipcarance,  or  the  manners  of  this  cxcc  cut  am 
much  valued  friend.  “ Advise,  advise  ’ he  wrote  , 
(9  Osnaburgh-terrace,  28th  of  May  1844),  ai  ^ 


IDLENESS  AT  ALBARO:  VILLA  BAGNERELLO. 


151 


vise  with  a distracted  man.  Investigation  below 
stairs  renders  it,  as  iny  father  would  say,  ‘ mani- 
fest to  any  i)ersoii  of  ordinary  intelligence,  if  the 
term  may  be  considered  allowable,’  that  the 
Saturday’s  dinner  cannot  come  off  here  with 
safety.  It  would  be  a toss-up,  and  might  come 
down  heads,  but  it  would  put  us  into  an  agony 

with  that  kind  of  people Now,  I feel  a 

difficulty  in  dropping  it  altogether,  and  really 
fear  that  this  might  have  an  indefinably  suspi- 
cious and  odd  appearance.  Then  said  I at 
breakfast  this  morning.  I’ll  send  down  to  the 
Clarendon.  Then  says  Kate,  have  it  at  Rich- 
mond. Then  I say  that  might  be  inconvenient 
to  the  people.  Then  she  says,  how  could  it  be 
if  we  dine  late  enough  ? Then  I am  very  much 
offended  without  exactly  knowing  why ; and 
come  up  here,  in  a state  of  hopeless  mystifica- 
tion  What  do  you  think?  Ellis  would 

be  quite  as  dear  as  anybody  else ; and  unless 
the  weather  changes  the  place  is  objectionable. 
I must  make  up  my  mind  to  do  one  thing  or 
other,  for  we  shall  meet  Lord  Denman  at  dinner 
to-day.  Could  it  be  dropped  decently  ? That, 
I think  very  doubtful.  Could  it  be  done  for  a 
couple  of  guineas  apiece  at  the  Clarendon  ? 
....  In  a matter  of  more  importance  I could 
make  up  my  mind.  But  in  a matter  of  this  kind 
I bother  and  bewilder  myself,  and  come  to  no 
conclusion  whatever.  Advise ! Advise ! . . . . 
List  of  the  invited.  There’s  Lord  Normanby. 
And  there’s  Lord  Denman.  There’s  Easthope, 
wife  and  sister.  There’s  Sydney  Smith.  There’s 
you  and  Mac.  There’s  Babbage.  There’s  a 
Lady  Osborne  and  her  daughter.  There’s 
Southwood  Smith.  And  there’s  Quin.  And 
there  are  Thomas  Chapman  and  his  wife.  So 
many  of  these  people  have  never  dined  with  us, 
that  the  fix  is  particularly  tight.  Advise  ! Ad- 
vise ! ” My  advice  was  for  throwing  over  the 
party  altogether,  but  additional  help  was  ob- 
tained and  the  inner  went  off  very  pleasantly. 
It  was  the  last  time  we  saw  Sydney  Smith. 

Of  one  other  characteristic  occurrence  he 
wrote  before  he  left ; and  the  very  legible  epi- 
graph round  the  seal  of  his  letter,  “ It  is  parti- 
cularly requested  that  if  Sir  James  Graham 
should  open  this,  he  will  not  trouble  himself  to 
seal,  it  again,”  expresses  both  its  date  and  its 
writer’s  opinion  of  a notorious  transaction  of  the 
time.  “I  wish”  (28th  of  June)  “you  would 
read  this,  and  give  it  me  again  when  we  meet  at 
Stanfield’s  to-day.  Newby  has  written  to  me 
to  say  that  he  hopes  to  be  able  to  give  Overs 
more  money  than  was  agreed  on.”  The  en- 
closure was  the  proof-sheet  of  a preface  written 
by  him  to  a small  collection  of  stories  by  a poor 


carpenter  dying  of  consumption,  who  hoped  by 
their  publication,  under  protection  of  such  a 
name,  to  leave  behind  him  some  small  provision 
for  his  ailing  wife  and  little  children.’^’  The 
book  was  dedicated  to  the  kind  physician. 
Doctor  Elliotson,  whose  name  was  for  nearly 
thirty  years  a synonym  with  us  all  for  unwearied, 
self-sacrificing,  beneficent  service  to  every  one 
in  need. 

The  last  incident  before  Dickens’s  departure 
was  a farewell  dinner  to  him  at  Greenwich, 
which  took  also  the  form  of  a celebration  for  the 
completion  of  Chiizzkwit,  or,  as  the  Ballantynes 
used  to  call  it  in  Scott’s  case,  a christening 
dinner;  when  Lord  Normanby  took  the  chair, 
and  I remember  sitting  next  the  great  painter 
Turner,  who  had  come  with  Stanfield,  and  had 
enveloped  his  throat,  that  sultry  summer  day,  in 
a huge  red  belcher-handkerchief  which  nothing 
would  induce  him  to  remove.  He  was  not 
otherwise  demonstrative,  but  enjoyed  himself  in 
a quiet  silent  way,  less  perhaps  at  the  speeches 
than  at  the  changing  lights  on  the  river.  Carlyle 
did  not  come ; telling  me  in  his  reply  to  the 
invitation  that  he  truly  loved  Dickens,  having 
discerned  in  the  inner  man  of  him  a real  music 
of  the  genuine  kind,  but  that  he’d  rather  testify 
to  this  in  some  other  form  than  that  of  dining 
out  in  the  dogdays. 


IV. 

IDLENESS  AT  ALBARO  : VILLA  BAGNE- 
RELLO. 

1844, 

HE  travelling  party  arrived  at  Mar- 
seilles on  the  evening  of  Sunday  the 
14th  of  July.  Not  being  able  to  get 
vetturino  horses  in  Paris,  they  had 
come  on,  post  ; paying  for  nine 
horses  but  bringing  only  four,  and  thereby 
saving  a shilling  a mile  out  of  what  the 
four  would  have  cost  in  England.  So 
thus  far,  however,  had  been  the  cost  of 
, that  “ what  with  distance,  caravan,  sight- 

* He  wrote  from  Marseilles  (17th  Dec.  1844).  “When 
poor  Overs  was  dying  he  suddenly  asked  for  a pen  and 
ink  and  some  paper,  and  made  up  a little  parcel  for  me 
which  it  was  his  last  conscious  act  to  direct.  She  (his 
wife)  told  me  this  and  gave  it  me.  I opened  it  last 
night.  It  was  a copy  of  his  little  book  in  which  he  had 
written  my  name,  ‘ With  his  devotion.’  I thought  it 
simple  and  affecting  of  the  poor  fellow.”  From  a later 
letter  a few  lines  may  be  added.  “ Mrs.  Overs  tells  me” 
(Monte  Vacchi,  30th  March,  1845)  “that  Miss  Ccutts 
has  sent  her,  at  different  times,  sixteen  pounds,  has  sent 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


152 


seeing,  and  everything,”  two  hundred  pounds 
would  be  nearly  swallowed  up  before  they  were 
at  their  destination.  The  success  otherwise  had 
been  complete.  'I'he  children  had  not  cried  in 
their  worst  troubles,  the  carriage  had  gone 
lightly  over  abominable  roads,  and  the  courier 
had  proved  himself  a perfect  gem.  “ Surrounded 
by  strange  and  perfectly  novel  circumstances,” 
Dickens  wrote  to  me  from  Marseilles,  “ I feel  as 
if  I had  a new  head  on  side  by  side  with  my  old 
one.” 

To  what  shrewd  and  kindly  observation  the 
old  one  had  helped  him  at  every  stage  of  his 
journey,  his  published  book  of  travel  tells,  and 
of  all  that  there  will  be  nothing  here ; but  a 
couple  of  experiences  at  his  outset,  of  which  he 
told  me  aftei wards,  have  enough  character  in 
them  to  be  worth  mention. 

Shortly  before  there  had  been  some  public 
interest  about  the  captain  of  a Boulogne  steamer 
apprehended  on  a suspicion  of  having  stolen 
specie,  but  reinstated  by  his  owners  after  a public 
apology  to  him  on  their  behalf;  and  Dickens 
had  hardly  set  foot  on  the  boat  that  was  to 
carry  them  across,  when  he  was  attracted  by  the 
look  of  its  captain,  and  discovered  him  after  a 
I minute’s  talk  to  be  that  very  man.  “Such  an 
honest,  simple,  good  fellow,  I never  saw,”  said 
Dickens,  as  he  imitated  for  me  the  homely 
speech  in  which  his  confidences  were  related. 
The  Boulogne  people,  he  said,  had  given  him  a 
piece  of  plate,  “but  Lord  bless  us!  it  took  a 
deal  more  than  that  to  get  him  round  again  in 
his  own  mind ; and  for  weeks  and  weeks  he  was 
uncommon  low  to  be  sure.  Newgate,  you  see  ! 
AVhat  a place  for  a sea-faring  man  as  had  held 
up  his  head  afore  the  best  on  ’em,  and  had  more 
friends,  I mean  to  say,  and  I do  tell  you  the 
daylight  truth,  than  any  man  on  this  station — 
ah  ! or  any  other,  I don’t  care  where  ! ” 

His  first  experience  in  a foreign  tongue  he 
made  immediately  on  landing,  when  he  had  gone 
to  the  bank  for  money,  and  after  delivering 
with  most  laborious  distinctness  a rather  long 
address  in  French  to  the  clerk  behind  the  coun- 
ter, was  disconcerted  by  that  functionary’s  cool 
enquiry  in  the  native-born  Lombard-street  man- 
ner, “ How  would  you  like  to  take  it,  sir?”  He 
took  it,  as  everybody  must,  in  five-franc  ])ieces, 
and  a most  inconvenient  coinage  he  found  it ; 
for  he  required  so  much  that  he  had  to  carry  it 
in  a couple  of  small  sacks,  and  was  always 
a doctor  to  her  children,  and  has  got  one  of  the  girls  into 
the  Orphan  School.  When  I wrote  her  a word  in  the 
]ioor  woman’s  behalf,  she  wrote  me  back  to  the  cd'ect 
I that  it  was  a kindness  to  herself  to  have  done  so,  ‘ for 

, what  is  the  use  of  my  means  but  to  try  and  do  some  good 

with  them  .?  ’ ” 


“ turning  hot  about  suddenly  ” taking  it  into  his 
head  that  he  had  lost  them. 

The  evening  of  Tuesday  the  i6th  of  July  saw 
him  in  a villa  at  Albaro,  the  suburb  of  Genoa 
in  which,  upon  the  advice  of  our  Gore-house 
friends,  he  had  resolved  to  pass  the  summer 
months  before  taking  up  his  quarters  in  the  city. 

His  wish  was  to  have  had  Lord  Byron’s  house 
there,  but  it  had  fallen  into  neglect  and  become 
the  refuge  of  a third-rate  rvineshop.  The  matter 
had  then  been  left  to  Angus  Fletcher  who  just 
now  lived  near  Genoa,  and  he  had  taken  at  a rent 
absurdly  above  its  value  an  unpicturesque  and 
uninteresting  dwelling,  rvhich  at  once  impressed 
its  new  tenant  with  its  likeness  to  a pink  jail. 
“It  is,”  he  said  to  me,  “the  most  perfectly 
lonely,  rusty,  stagnant  old  staggerer  of  a domain 
that  you  can  possibly  imagine.  What  would  I 
give  if  you  could  only  look  round  the  court- 
yard ! /look  down  into  it,  whenever  I am  near 
that  side  of  the  house,  for  the  stable  is  so  full  of 
‘ vermin  and  swarmers  ’ (pardon  the  quotation 
from  my  inimitable  friend)  that  I always  expect 
to  see  the  carriage  going  out  bodily,  wuth  legions 
of  industrious  fleas  harnessed  to  and  drawing  it 
oft',  on  their  own  account.  We  have  a couple  of 
Italian  work-people  in  our  establishment ; and 
to  hear  one  or  other  of  them  talking  aw'ay  to  our 
servants  with  the  utmost  violence  and  volubility 
in  Genoese,  and  our  servants  answering  with 
great  fluency  in  English  (very  loud:  as  if  the 
others  were  only  deaf,  not  Italian),  is  one  of  the 
most  ridiculous  things  possible.  The  effect  is 
greatly  enhanced  by  the  Genoese  manner,  which 
is  exceedingly  animated  and  pantomimic ; so 
that  two  friends  of  the  lower  class  conversing 
pleasantly  in  the  street,  always  seem  on  the  eve 
of  stabbing  each  other  forthwith.  And  a stranger 
is  immensely  astonished  at  their  not  doing  it.” 

The  heat  tried  him  less  than  he  expected,  ex- 
cepting always  the  sirocco,  which,  near  the  sea 
as  they  were,  and  right  in  the  course  of  the  wind 
as  it  blew  against  the  house,  made  everything 
hotter  than  if  there  had  been  no  wind.  “ One 
feels  it  most,  on  first  getting  up.  Then,  it  is 
really  so  oppressive  that  a strong  determination 
is  necessary  to  enable  one  to  go  on  dressing ; 
one’s  tendency  being  to  tumble  down  anywhere 
and  lie  there.”  It  seemed  to  hit  him,  he  said, 
behind  the  knee,  and  make  his  legs  so  shake 
that  he  could  not  walk  or  stand.  He  had  un- 
fortunately a whole  week  of  this  without  inter- 
mission, soon  after  his  arrival ; but  then  came  a 
storm,  with  wind  from  the  mountains  ; and  he 
could  bear  the  ordinary  heat  very  well,  ^\’hat 
at  first  had  been  a home  discomfort,  the  bare 
walls,  lofty  ceilings,  icy  floors,  and  lattice  blintls, 


IDLENESS  AT  ALBARO 


soon  became  agreeable  ; there  were  regular  after- 
noon breezes  from  the  sea  ; in  his  courtyard  was 
a well  of  very  pure  and  very  cold  water ; there 
were  new  milk  and  eggs  by  the  bucketful,  and, 
to  protect  from  the  summer  insects  these  and 
other  dainties,  there  were  fresh  vine-leaves  by 
the  thousand;  and  he  satisfied  himself,  by  the 
experience  of  a day  or  two  in  the  city,  that  he 
had  done  well  to  come  first  to  its  suburb  by  the 
sea.  What  startled  and  disappointed  him  most 
were  the  frequent  cloudy  days.  He  opened  his 
third  letter  (3rd  of  August)  by  telling  me  there 
was  a thick  November  fog,  that  rain  was  pouring 
incessantly,  and  that  he  did  not  remember  to  have 
seen  in  his  life,  at  that  time  of  year,  such  cloudy 
weather  as  he  had  seen  beneath  Italian  skies. 

“ The  story  goes  that  it  is  in  autumn  and 
winter,  when  other  countries  are  dark  and  foggy, 
that  the  beauty  and  clearness  of  this  are  most 
observable.  I hope  it  may  prove  so  ; for  I have 
postponed  going  round  the  hills  which  encircle 
the  city,  or  seeing  any  of  the  sights,  until  the 
weather  is  more  favourable.  I have  never  yet 
seen  it  so  clear,  for  any  long  time  of  the  day 
together,  as  on  a bright,  lark-singing,  coast-ofi 
France  discerning  day  at  Broadstairs  ; nor  have 
I ever  seen  so  fine  a sunset  throughout,  as  is 
very  common  there.  But  the  scenery  is  exqui- 
site, and  at  certain  periods  of  the  evening  and 
the  morning  the  blue  of  the  Mediterranean  sur- 
passes all  conception  or  description.  It  is  the 
most  intense  and  wonderful  colour,  I do  believe, 
in  all  nature.” 

In  his  second  letter  from  Albaro  there  was 
more  of  this  subject;  and  an  outbreak  of  whim- 
sical enthusiasm  in  it,  meant  especially  for  Mac- 
lise,  is  followed  by  some  capital  description.  “ I 
address  you,  my  friend,”  he  wrote,  “ with  some- 
thing of  the  lofty  spirit  of  an  exile,  a banished 
commoner,  a sort  of  Anglo-Pole.  I don’t 
exactly  know  what  I have  done  for  my  country 
in  coming  away  from  it,  but  I feet  it  is  some- 
thing; something  great ; something  virtuous  and 
heroic.  Lofty  emotions  rise  within  me,  when  I 
see  the  sun  set  on  the  blue  Mediterranean.  I 
am  the  limpet  on  the  rock  ; my  father’s  name  is 

Turner,  and  my  boots  are  green Apropos 

of  blue.  In  a certain  picture  called  the  Serenade 
for  which  Browning  wrote  that  verse*  in  Lin- 

* I send  my  heart  up  to  thee,  all  my  heart. 

In  this  my  singing ! 

For  the  stars  help  me,  and  the  sea  bears  part ; 

The  veiy  night  is  clinging 
Closer  to  Venice’  streets  to  leave  one  space 
Above  me,  whence  thy  face 
May  light  my  joyous  heart  to  thee  its  dwelling-place. 
Written  to  express  Maclise’s  subject  in  the  Academy 
catalogue. 


.•  VILLA  BAGNERELLO. 


coln’s-inn-fields,  you,  O Mac,  painted  a sky.  If 
you  ever  have  occasion  to  paint  the  Mediter- 
ranean, let  it  be  exactly  of  that  colour.  It  lies 
before  me  now,  as  deeply  and  intensely  blue. 
But  no  such  colour  is  above  me.  Nothing  like 
it.  In  the  south  of  France,  at  Avignon,  at  Aix, 
at  Marseilles,  I saw  deep  blue  skies ; and  also 
in  America.  But  the  sky  above  me  is  familiar 
to  my  sight.  Is  it  heresy  to  say  that  I have 
seen  its  twin-brother  shining  through  the  window 
of  Jack  Straw’s?  that  down  in  Devonshire-ter- 
race  I have  seen  a better  sky  ? I dare  say  it  is  ; 
but  like  a great  many  other  heresies,  it  is  true. 

. . . . But  such  green,  green,  green,  as  flutters 
in  the  vineyard  down  below  the  windows,  that 
I never  saw ; nor  yet  such  lilac  and  such  purple 
as  float  between  me  and  the  distant  hills ; nor 
yet  in  anything,  picture,  book,  or  vestal  bore- 
dom, such  awful,  solemn,  impenetrable  blue,  as 
in  that  same  sea.  It  has  such  an  absorbing, 
silent,  deep,  profound  effect,  that  I can’t  help 
thinking  it  suggested  the  idea  of  Styx.  It  looks 
as  if  a draught  of  it,  only  so  much  as  you  could 
scoop  up  on  the  beach  in  the  hollow  of  your 
hand,  would  wash  out  everything  else,  and  make 

a great  blue  blank  of  your  intellect When 

the  sun  sets  clearly,  by  Heaven,  it  is  majestic. 
From  any  one  of  eleven  windows  here,  or  from 
a terrace  overgrown  with  grapes,  you  may  behold 
the  broad  sea,  villas,  houses,  mountains,  forts, 
strewn  with  rose  leaves.  Strewn  with  them  ? 
Steeped  in  them  ! Dyed,  through  and  through 
and  through.  For  a moment.  No  more.  The 
sun  is  impatient  and  fierce  (like  everything  else 
in  these  parts),  and  goes  down  headlong.  Run 
to  fetch  your  hat—  and  it’s  night.  Wink  at  the 
right  time  of  black  night — and  it’s  morning. 
Everything  is  in  extremes.  There  is  an  insect 
here  that  chirps  all  day.  There  is  one  outside 
the  window  now.  The  chirp  is  very  loud  : 
something  like  a Brobdingnagian  grasshopper. 
The  creature  is  born  to  chirp ; to  progress  in 
chirping ; chirp  louder,  louder,  louder,  till  it 
gives  one  tremendous  chirp  and  bursts  itself. 
That  is  its  life  and  death.  Everything  is  ‘ in 
a concatenation  accordingly.’  The  day  gets 
brighter,  brighter,  brighter,  till  it’s  night.  The 
summer  gets  hotter,  hotter,  hotter,  till  it  ex- 
plodes. The  fruit  gets  riper,  riper,  riper,  till  it 
tumbles  down  and  rots Ask  me  a ques- 

tion or  two  about  fresco  ; will  you  be  so  good  ? 
All  the  houses  are  painted  in  fresco,  hereabout 
(the  outside  walls  I mean,  the  fronts,  backs,  and 
sides),  and  all  the  colour  has  run  into  damp  and 
green  seediness,  and  the  very  design  has  strag- 
gled away  into  the  component  atoms  of  the 
plaster.  Beware  of  fresco  ! Sometimes  (but  not 


154 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKEHS. 


often)  I can  make  out  a Virgin  with  a mildewed 
glory  round  her  head,  holding  nothing  in  an  un- 
discernible  lap  with  invisible  arms ; and  occa- 
sionally the  leg  or  arm  of  a cherub.  But  it  is 
very  melancholy  and  dim.  There  are  two  old 
fresco-painted  vases  outside  my  own  gate,  one 
on  either  hand,  which  are  so  faint  that  I never 
saw  them  till  last  night ; and  only  then,  because 
I was  looking  over  the  wall  after  a lizard  who 
had  come  upon  me  while  I was  smoking  a cigar 
above,  and  crawled  over  one  of  these  embellish- 
ments in  his  retreat ” 

That  letter  sketched  for  me  the  story  of  his 
travel  through  France,  and  I may  at  once  say 
that  I thus  received,  from  week  to  week,  the 
“ first  sprightly  runnings  ” of  every  description  in 
his  Pictures  from  Italy.  But  my  rule  as  to  the 
American  letters  must  be  here  observed  yet  more 


strictly;  and  nothing  resembling  his  printed  book, 
however  distantly,  can  be  admitted  into  these 
pages.  Even  so  my  difficulty  of  rejection  will  not 
be  less  ; for  as  he  had  not  actually  decided,  until 
the  very  last,  to  publish  his  present  experiences 
at  all,  a larger  number  of  the  letters  were  left 
unrilled  by  him.  He  had  no  settled  plan  from 
the  first,  as  in  the  other  case. 

His  most  valued  acquaintance  at  Albaro  was 
the  French  consul-general,  a student  of  our  lite- 
rature who  had  written  on  his  books  in  one  of 
the  French  reviews,  and  who  with  his  English 
wife  lived  in  the  very  next  villa,  though  so  oddly 
shut  away  by  its  vineyard  that  to  get  from  the 
one  adjoining  house  to  the  other  was  a mile’s 
journey.  Describing,  in  that  August  letter,  his 
first  call  from  this  new  friend  thus  pleasantly 
self-recommended,  he  makes  the  visit  his  ex- 


cuse for  breaking  off  from  a facetious  descrip- 
tion of  French  inns  to  introduce  to  me  a sketch, 
from  a pencil  outline  by  Fletcher,  of  what  bore 
the  imposing  name  of  the  Villa  di  Bella  Vista, 
but  which  he  called  by  the  homelier  one  of  its 
proprietor,  Bagnerdlo.  “ This,  my  friend,  is 
quite  accurate.  Allow  me  to  explain  it.  You 
are  standing,  sir,  in  our  vineyard,  among  the 
grapes  and  figs.  The  Mediterranean  is  at  your 
back  as  you  look  at  the  house  : of  which  two 
sides  out  of  four  are  here  depicted.  The  lower 
story  (nearly  concealed  by  the  vines)  consists  of 
the  hall,  a wine-cellar,  and  some  store-rooms. 
The  three  windows  on  the  left  of  the  first-floor 
belong  to  the  sala,  lofty  and  whitewashed,  which 
has  two  more  windows  round  the  corner.  The 
fourth  window  did  belong  to  the  dining-room, 
but  I have  changed  one  of  the  nurseries  for 
better  air ; and  it  now  appertains  to  that  branch 
of  the  establishment.  The  fifth  and  sixth,  or 
two  right-hand  windows,  sir,  admit  the  light  to 


the  inimitable’s  (and  uxor’s)  chamber;  to  which 
the  first  window  round  the  right-hand  corner, 
which  you  perceive  in  shadow,  also  belongs. 
The  next  window  in  shadow,  young  sir,  is  the 
bower  of  Miss  H.  The  next,  a nursery  win- 
dow; the  same  having  two  more  round  the 
corner  again.  The  bowery-looking  place  stretch- 
ing out  upon  the  left  of  the  house  is  the  terrace, 
which  opens  out  from  a French  window  in  the 
drawing-room  on  the  same  floor  of  which  you 
see  nothing,  and  forms  one  side  of  the  court- 
yard. The  upper  windows  belong  to  some  of 
those  uncounted  chambers  upstairs  ; the  fourth 
one,  longer  than  the  rest,  being  in  Fletcher’s 
bedroom.  There  is  a kitchen  or  two  up  there 
besides,  and  my  dressing-room  : which  you  can’t 
see  from  this  i)oint  of  view.  'I'he  kitchens  and 
other  offices  in  use  are  down  below,  under  that 
part  of  the  house  where  the  roof  is  longest.  On 
your  left,  beyond  the  bay  of  Genoa,  about  two 
miles  off,  the  Alps  stretch  out  into  tlie  far 


IDLENESS  AT  ALBARO 


horizon ; on  your  right,  at  three  or  four  miles’ 
tlistance,  are  mountains  crowned  with  forts. 
The  intervening  space  on  both  sides  is  dotted 
with  villas,  some  green,  some  red,  some  yellow, 
some  blue,  some  (and  ours  among  the  number) 
pink.  At  your  back,  as  I have  said,  sir,  is  the 
ocean  ; with  the  slim  Italian  tower  of  the  ruined 
church  of  St.  John  the  Baptist  rising  up  before 
it,  on  the  top  of  a pile  of  savage  rocks.  You  go 
through  the  court-yard,  and  out  at  the  gate,  and 
down  a narrow  lane  to  the  sea.  Note.  The 
sala  goes  sheer  up  to  the  top  of  the  house ; the 
ceiling  being  conical,  and  the  little  bedrooms 
built  round  the  spring  of  its  arch.  You  will 
observe  that  we  make  no  pretension  to  archi- 
tectural magnificence,  but  that  we  have  abun- 
dance of  room.  And  here  I am  beholding  only 

vines  and  the  sea  for  days  together 

Good  Heavens  ! How  I wish  you’d  come  for  a 
week  or  two,  and  taste  the  white  wine  at  a 
penny  farthing  the  pint.  It  is  excellent.”  .... 
Then,  after  seven  days  : “ I have  got  my  paper 
and  inkstand  and  figures  now  (the  box  from 
Oonaburgh-terrace  only  came  last  Thursday), 
and  can  think — I have  begun  to  do  so  every 
morning — with  a business-like  air,  of  the  Christ- 
mas book.  My  paper  is  arranged,  and  my  pens 
are  spread  out,  in  the  usual  form.  I think  you 
know  the  form — don’t  you?  My  books  have 
not  passed  the  custom-house  yet,  and  I tremble 

for  some  volumes  of  Voltaire I write  in 

the  best  bedroom.  The  sun  is  off  the  corner 
window  at  the  side  of  the  house  by  a very  little 
after  twelve ; and  I can  then  throw  the  blinds 
open,  and  look  up  from  my  paper,  at  the  sea, 
the  mountains,  the  washed-out  villas,  the  vine- 
yards, at  the  blistering  white  hot  fort  with  a 
sentry  on  the  drawbridge  standing  in  a bit  of 
shadow  no  broader  than  his  own  musket,  and  at 
the  sky,  as  often  as  I like.  It  is  a very  peace- 
ful view,  and  yet  a very  cheerful  one.  Quiet  as 
quiet  can  be.” 

Not  yet  however  had  the  time  for  writing 
come.  A sharp  attack  of  illness  befell  his 
youngest  little  daughter,  Kate,  and  troubled  him 
much.  Then,  after  beginning  the  Italian  gram- 
mar himself,  he  had  to  call  in  the  help  of  a 
master ; and  this  learning  of  the  language  took 
up  time.  But  he  had  an  aptitude  for  it,  and 
after  a month’s  application  told  me  (24th  of 
August)  that  he  could  ask  in  Italian  for  what- 
ever he  wanted  in  any  shop  or  coffeehouse,  and 
could  read  it  pretty  well.  “ I wish  you  could 
see  me”  (i6th  of  September),  “without  my 
knowing  it,  walking  about  alone  here.  I am 
now  as  bold  as  a lion  in  the  streets.  The  auda- 
city with  which  one  begins  to  speak  when  there 


VILLA  BAGNERELLO.  155 


is  no  help  for  it,  is  (juite  astonishing.”  The 
blank  impossibility  at  the  outset,  however,  of 
getting  native  meanings  conveyed  to  his  Eng- 
lish servants,  he  very  humorously  described  to 
me ; and  said  the  spell  was  first  broken  by  the 
cook,  “ being  really  a clever  woman,  and  not 
entrenching  herself  in  that  astonishing  pride  of 
ignorance  which  induces  the  rest  to  oppose  them- 
selves to  the  receipt  of  any  information  through 
any  channel,  and  which  made  A.  careless  of 
looking  out  of  window,  in  America,  even  to  see 
the  Falls  of  Niagara.”  So  that  he  soon  had  to 
report  the  gain,  to  all  of  them,  from  the  fact  of 
this  enterprising  woman  having  so  primed  her- 
self with  “ the  names  of  all  sorts  of  vegetables, 
meats,  soups,  fruits,  and  kitchen  necessaries,” 
that  she  was  able  to  order  whatever  was  needful 
of  the  peasantry  that  were  trotting  in  and  out 
all  day,  basketed  and  barefooted.  Her  example 
became  at  once  contagious;"’  and  before  the 
end  of  the  second  week  of  September  news 
reached  me  that  “ the  servants  are  beginning  to 
pick  up  scraps  of  Italian ; some  of  them  go  to  a 
weekly  conversazione  of  servants  at  the  Gover- 
nor’s every  Sunday  night,  having  got  over  their 
consternation  at  the  frequent  introduction  of 
quadrilles  on  these  occasions  ; and  I think  they 
begin  to  like  their  foreigneering  life.” 

In  the  tradespeople  they  dealt  with  at  Albaro 
he  found  amusing  points  of  character.  Sharp  as 
they  were  after  money,  their  idleness  quenched 
even  that  propensity.  Order  for  immediate 
delivery  two  or  three  pounds  of  tea,  and  the 
tea-dealer  would  be  wretched.  “ Won’t  it  do 
to-morrow?”  “I  want  it  now,”  you  would 
reply ; and  he  would  say,  “ No,  no,  there  can 
be  no  hurry  ! ” He  remonstrated  against  the 
cruelty.  But  everywhere  there  was  deference, 
courtesy,  more  than  civility.  “ In  a cafe  a little 
tumbler  of  ice  costs  something  less  than  three- 
pence, and  if  you  give  the  waiter  in  addition 
what  you  would  not  ofi’er  to  an  English  beggar, 
say,  the  third  of  a halfpenny,  he  is  profoundly 

* Not  however,  happily  for  them,  in  another  important 
particular,  for  on  the  eve  of  their  return  to  England  she 
declared  her  intention  of  staying  behind  and  marrying  an 
Italian.  “ She  will  have  to  go  to  Florence,  I find  ” (12th 
of  May,  1845),  “to  be  married  in  Lord  Holland’s  house : 
and  even  then  is  only  married  according  to  the  English 
law  : having  no  legal  rights  from  such  a marriage,  either 
in  France  or  Italy.  The  man  hasn’t  a penny.  If  there 
were  an  opening  for  a nice  clean  restaurant  in  Genoa — 
which  I don’t  believe  there  is,  for  the  Genoese  have  a 
natural  enjoyment  of  dirt,  garlic,  and  oil — it  would  still 
be  a very  hazardous  venture  ; as  the  priests  will  certainly 
damage  the  man,  if  they  can,  for  marrying  a Protestant 
woman.  However,  the  utmost  I can  do  is  to  take  care, 
if  such  a crisis  should  arrive,  that  she  shall  not  want  the 
means  of  getting  home  to  England.  As  my  father  would 
observe,  ‘she  has  sown  and  must  reap.’  ” 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


156 


grateful.”  The  attentions  received  from  English 
residents  were  unremitting.*  In  moments  of 
need  at  the  outset,  they  bestirred  themselves 
(“  large  merchants  and  grave  men  ”)  as  if  they 
were  the  family’s  salaried  purveyors ; and  there 
was  in  especial  one  gentleman  named  Curry 
whose  untiring  kindness  was  long  remembered. 

The  light,  eager,  active  figure  soon  made  itself 
familiar  in  the  streets  of  Genoa,  and  he  never 
went  into  them  without  bringing  some  oddity 
away.  I soon  heard  of  the  strada  Nuova  and 
strada  Balbi ; of  the  broadest  of  the  two  as 
narrower  than  Albany-street,  and  of  the  other 
as  less  wide  than  Drury-lane  or  Wych-street ; 
but  both  filled  with  palaces  of  noble  architecture 
and  of  such  vast  dimensions  that  as  many  win- 
dows as  there  are  days  in  the  year  might  be 
counted  in  one  of  them,  and  this  not  covering 
by  any  means  the  largest  plot  of  ground.  I 
heard  too  of  the  other  streets,  none  with  foot- 
ways, and  all  varying  in  degrees  of  narrowness, 
but  for  the  most  part  like  Field-lane  in  Holborn, 
with  little  breathing-places  like  St,  Martin’s- 
court ; and  the  widest  only  in  parts  wide  enough 
to  enable  a carriage  and  pair  to  turn.  “ Imagine 
yourself  looking  down  a street  of  Reform  Clubs 
cramped  after  this  odd  fashion,  the  lofty  roofs 
almost  seeming  to  meet  in  the  perspective.”  In 
the  churches  nothing  struck  him  so  much  as  the 
profusion  of  trash  and  tinsel  in  them  that  con- 
trasted with  their  real  splendours  of  embellish- 
ment. One  only,  that  of  the  Cappucini  friars, 
blazed  every  inch  of  it  with  gold,  precious  stones, 
and  paintings  of  priceless  art ; the  principal  con- 
trast to  its  radiance  being  the  dirt  of  its  masters, 
whose  bare  legs,  corded  waists,  and  coarse 
brown  serge  never  changed  by  night  or  day, 
proclaimed  amid  their  corporate  wealth  their 
personal  vows  of  poverty.  He  found  them  less 
pleasant  to  meet  and  look  at  than  the  country 
people  of  their  suburb  on  festa-days,  with  the 
Indulgences  that  gave  them  the  right  to  make 

* He  had  carried  with  him,  I may  here  mention,  let- 
ters of  introduction  to  residents  in  all  parts  of  Italy,  of 
which  I believe  he  delivered  hardly  one.  Writing  to  me 
a couple  of  months  before  he  left  the  country  he  congra- 
tulated himself  on  this  fact.  “ We  are  living  very  quietly  ; 
and  I am  now  more  than  ever  glad  that  I have  kept  my- 
self aloof  from  the  ‘ receiving  ’ natives  always,  and  de- 
livered scarcely  any  of  my  letiers  of  introduction.  If  I 
had,  I should  have  seen  nothing  and  known  less.  I 
have  observed  that  the  English  women  who  have  married 
foreigners  are  invariably  the  most  audacious  in  the  license 
they  assume.  Think  of  one  lady  married  to  a royal  cham- 
berlain (not  here)  who  said  at  dinner  to  the  master  of  the 
house  at  a place  where  I w.is  dining — that  she  had  brought 
back  his  Satirist,  but  didn’t  think  there  was  quite  so  much 
‘ fun  ’ in  it  as  there  used  to  be.  I looked  at  the  paper 
afterwards,  and  found  it  crammed  with  such  vile  ob- 
scenity as  positively  made  one’s  hair  stand  on  end.” 


merry  stuck  in  their  hats  like  turnpike-tickets. 

He  did  not  think  the  peasant  girls  in  general 
good-looking,  though  they  carried  themselves 
daintily  and  walked  remarkably  well : but  the 
ugliness  of  the  old  women,  begotten  of  hard 
work  and  a burning  sun,  with  porters’  knots  of  ' 
coarse  grey  hair  grubbed  up  over  wrinkled  and 
cadaverous  faces,  he  thought  quite  stupendous. 

He  was  never  in  a street  a hundred  yards  long 
without  getting  up  perfectly  the  witch  part  of 
Macbeth. 

With  the  theatres  of  course  he  soon  became  1 
acquainted,  and  of  that  of  the  puppets  he  WTOte  1 
to  me  again  and  again  with  humorous  rapture,  j 
“ There  are  other  things,”  he  added,  after  giving  I 
me  the  account  wdiich  is  published  in  his  book,  ^ i 
“ too  solemnly  surprising  to  dwell  upon.  They  , 
must  be  seen.  They  must  be  seen.  The  en- 
chanter carrying  oft'  the  bride  is  not  greater 
than  his  men  brandishing  fiery  torches  and 
dropping  their  lighted  spirits  of  wine  at  every 
shake.  .\lso  the  enchanter  himself,  w’hen, 
hunted  down  and  overcome,  he  leaps  into  the 
rolling  sea,  and  finds  a watery  grave.  Also  the 
second  comic  man,  aged  about  55  and  like 
George  the  Third  in  the  face,  when  he  gives 
out  the  play  for  the  next  night.  They  must  ali 
be  seen.  They  can’t  be  told  about.  Quite  ] 
impossible.”  The  living  performers  he  did  not  I 
think  so  good,  a disbelief  in  Italian  actors  hav- 
ing been  always  a heresy  with  him,  and  the 
deplorable  length  of  dialogue  to  the  small 
amount  of  action  in  their  plays  making  them 
sadly  tiresome.  The  first  that  he  saw  at  the 
principal  theatre  w’as  a version  of  Balzac’s  IHe 
Goriot.  “ The  domestic  Lear  I thought  at  first 
was  going  to  be  very  clever.  But  he  was  too 
pitiful — perhaps  the  Italian  reality  w'ould  be. 

He  was  immensely  applauded,  though.”  He 
afterwards  saw  a version  of  Dumas’  prepos- 
terous play  of  Kean,  in  which  most  of  the 
representatives  of  English  actors  wore  red  hats 
with  steeple  crowns,  and  very  loose  blouses 
with  broad  belts  and  buckles  round  their 
waists.  “ There  was  a mysterious  person  called 
the  Prince  of  Var-lees  ” (Wales),  “ the  youngest 
and  slimmest  man  in  the  company,  whose  badi- 
nage in  Kean’s  dressing-room  was  irresistible; 
and  the  dresser  wore  top-boots,  a Greek  skull- 
cap, a black  velvet  jacket,  and  leather  breeches. 

One  or  two  of  the  actors  looked  very  hard  at 
me  to  see  liow  I was  touched  by  these  English 
peculiarities — especially  when  Kean  kissed  his 
male  friends  on  both  cheeks.”  The  arrange- 
ments of  the  house,  which  he  described  as 
la  ger  than  Dmiv’-lane,  he  thought  excellent. 
Instead  of  a ticket  for  the  private  box  he  had 


IDLENESS  AT  ALB ARO 


taken  on  the  first  tier,  he  received  the  usual  key 
for  admission  whicli  let  him  in  as  if  he  lived 
there ; and  for  the  whole  set-out,  “ quite  as 
comfortable  and  private  as  a box  at  our  opera,” 
paid  only  eight  and  fourpence  English.  The 
opera  itself  had  not  its  regular  performers  until 
after  Christmas,  but  in  the  summer  there  was  a 
good  comic  company,  and  he  saw  the  Scara- 
muccia  and  the  Barber  of  Seville  brightly  and 
pleasantly  done.  There  was  also  a day  theatre. 


.■  VLLLA  BAGNERELLO. 


beginning  at  half-past  four  in  the  afternoon  ; 
but  beyond  the  novelty  of  looking  on  at  the 
covered  stage  as  he  sat  in  the  fresh  pleasant  air, 
he  did  not  find  much  amusement  in  the  Goldoni 
comedy  put  before  him.  There  came  later  a 
Russian  circus,  which  the  unusual  rains  of  that 
summer  prematurely  extinguished. 

The  Religious  Houses  he  made  early  and 
many  enquiries  about,  and  there  was  one  that 
had  stirred  and  baffled  his  curiosity  much  before 


GENOESE  WASHERWOilEN. 


he  discovered  what  it  really  was.  All  that  was 
visible  from  the  street  was  a great  high  wall, 
apparently  quite  alone,  no  thicker  than  a party 
wall,  with  grated  windows,  to  which  iron  screens 
gave  farther  protection.  At  first  he  supposed 
there  had  been  a fire ; but  by  degrees  came  to 
know'  that  on  the  other  side  were  galleries,  one 
above  another,  and  nuns  ahvays  pacing  them  to 
and  fro.  Like  the  wall  of  a racket-ground  out- 
side, it  was  inside  a very  large  nunnery ; and  let 
the  poor  sisters  walk  never  so  much,  neither 
they  nor  the  passers-by  could  see  anything  of 


each  other.  It  was  close  upon  the  Acqua  Sola, 
too ; a little  park  with  still  young  but  very 
pretty  trees,  and  fresh  and  cheerful  fountains, 
which  the  Genoese  made  their  Sunday  prome- 
nade ; and  underneath  which  was  an  archway 
with  great  public  tanks,  where,  at  all  ordinary 
times,  washerwomen  w'ere  washing  away,  thirty 
or  forty  together.  At  Albaro  they  w'ere  w'orse 
off  in  this  matter : the  clothes  there  being 
washed  in  a pond,  beaten  with  gourds,  and 
w'hitened  with  a preparation  of  lime  ; “ so  that,” 
he  wrote  to  me  (24th  of  August),  “what  be- 


I5S 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


tween  the  beating  and  the  burning  they  fall  into 
holes  unexpectedly,  and  my  white  trowsers, 
after  six  weeks’  washing,  would  make  very  good 
fishing-nets.  It  is  such  a serious  damage  that 
when  we  get  into  the  Peschiere  we  mean  to 
wash  at  home.” 

Exactly  a fortnight  before  this  date,  he  had 
hired  rooms  in  the  Peschiere  from  the  first  of 
the  following  October ; and  so  ended  the  house- 
hunting for  his  winter  residence,  that  had  taken 
him  so  often  to  the  city.  The  Peschiere  was 
the  largest  palace  in  Genoa  let  on  hire,  and  had 
the  advantage  of  standing  on  a height  aloof  from 
the  town,  surrounded  by  its  own  gardens.  The 
rooms  taken  had  been  occupied  by  an  English 
colonel,  the  remainder  of  whose  term  was  let  to 
Dickens  for  500  francs  a month  {£20) ; and  a 
few  days  after  (20th  of  August)  he  described  to 
me  a fellow  tenant : “ A Spanish  duke  has 
taken  the  room  under  me  in  the  Peschiere. 
The  duchess  was  his  mistress  many  years,  and 
bore  him  (I  think)  six  daughters.  He  always 
promised  her  that  if  she  gave  birth  to  a son,  he 
would  marry  her ; and  when  at  last  the  boy 
arrived,  he  went  into  her  bedroom,  saying — 
‘ Duchess,  I am  charmed  to  salute  you  ! ’ And 
he  married  her  in  good  earnest,  and  legitima- 
tized (as  by  the  Spanish  law  he  could)  all  the 
other  children.”  The  beauty  of  the  new  abode 
will  justify  a little  description  when  he  takes  up 
his  quarters  there.  One  or  two  incidents  may 
be  related,  meanwhile,  of  the  closing  weeks  of 
his  residence  at  Albaro. 

In  the  middle  of  August  he  dined  with  the 
French  consul-general,  and  there  will  now  be 
no  impropriety  in  printing  his  agreeable  sketch 
of  the  dinner.  “ There  was  present,  among 
other  Genoese,  the  Marquis  di  Negri  : a very 
fat  and  much  older  Jerdan,  with  the  same  thick- 
ness of  speech  and  size  of  tongue.  He  was 
Byron’s  friend,  keeps  open  house  here,  writes 
poetry,  improvises,  and  is  a very  good  old 
Blunderbore ; just  the  sort  of  instrument  to 
make  an  artesian  well  with,  anywhere.  Well, 
sir,  after  dinner,  the  consul  proposed  my  health, 
with  a little  French  conceit  to  the  effect  that  I 
had  come  to  Italy  to  have  personal  experience 
of  its  lovely  climate,  and  that  there  was  this 
similarity  between  the  Italian  sun  and  its  visitor, 
that  the  sun  shone  into  the  darkest  places  and 
made  them  bright  and  happy  with  its  benignant 
influence,  and  that  my  books  had  done  the  like 
with  the  breasts  of  men,  and  so  forth.  Upon 
which  Blunderbore  gives  his  biight-buttoned 
blue  coat  a great  rap  on  the  breast,  turns  up  his 
fishy  eyes,  stretches  out  his  arm  like  the  living 
statue  defying  the  lightning  at  Astley’s,  and 


delivers  four  impromptu  verses  in  my  honour, 
at  which  everybody  is  enchanted,  and  I more 
than  anybody — perhaps  with  the  best  reason, 
for  I didn’t  understand  a word  of  them.  The 
consul  then  takes  from  his  breast  a roll  of  paper, 
and  says,  ‘ I shall  read  them  ! ’ Blunderbore 
then  says,  ‘ Don’t  ! ’ But  the  consul  does,  and 
Blunderbore  beats  time  to  the  music  of  the 
verse  with  his  knuckles  on  the  table ; and  per- 
petually ducks  forward  to  look  round  the  cap  of 
a lady  sitting  between  himself  and  me,  to  see 
what  I think  of  them.  I exhibit  lively  emotion. 
I he  verses  are  in  French — short  line- — on  the 
taking  of  Tpgiers  by  the  Prince  de  Joinville; 
and  are  received  with  great  applause  ; especially 
by  a nobleman  present  who  is  reported  to  be 
unable  to  read  and  write.  They  end  in  my 
mind  (rajiidly  translating  them  into  prose) 
thus — 


‘ The  cannon  of  France 
Shake  the  foundation 
Of  the  wondering  sea. 
The  artillery  on  the  shore 
Is  put  to  silence, 

Honour  to  Joinville 
And  the  Brave  ! 

The  Great  Intelligence 
Is  borne 

Upon  the  wings  of  Fame 
To  Paris. 

Her  national  citizens 
Exchange  caresses 
In  the  streets  ! 

The  temples  are  crowded 
With  religious  patriots 


Rendering  thanks 
To  Heaven. 

The  King 

And  all  the  Royal  Family 
Are  bathed 
In  tears. 

They  call  upon  the  name 
Of  Joinville ! 

France  also 
Weeps,  and  echoes  it. 
Joinville  is  crowned 
With  Immortality ; 

And  Peace  and  Joinville, 
And  the  Glory  of  France, 
Diffuse  themselves  ■ 
Conjointly.’ 


If  you  can  figure  to  yourself  the  choice  absurd- 
ity of  receiving  anything  into  one’s  mind  in 
this  way,  you  can  imagine  the  labour  I under- 
went in  my  attempts  to  keep  the  lower  part  of 
my  face  square,  and  to  lift  up  one  eye  gently,  as 
with  admiring  attention.  But  I am  bound  to 
add  that  this  is  really  pretty  literal ; for  I read 
them  afterwards.”  At  his  French  friend’s  house 
he  afterwards  made  the  acquaintance  of  Lamar- 
tine. 

This  was  the  year  of  several  uncomfortable 
glories  incident  to  France  in  the  last  three  years 
of  her  Orleans  dynasty  ; among  them  the  Tahiti 
business,  as  politicians  may  remember;  and  so 
hot  became  rumours  of  war  with  England  at  the 
opening  of  September  that  Dickens  had  serious 
thoughts  of  at  once  striking  his  tent.  One  of 
his  letters  was  filled  with  the  conflicting  doubts 
in  which  they  lived  for  nigh  a fortnight,  every 
day’s  arrival  contradicting  the  arrival  of  the  day 
before : so  that,  as  he  told  me,  you  met  a man 
in  the  street  to-day,  who  told  you  there  wouKl 
certainly  be  war  in  a week ; and  you  met  the 
same  man  in  the  street  to-morrow,  and  he  swore 


IDLENESS  AT  ALBARO 


lie  always  knew  there  would  be  nothing  but 
peace;  and  you  met  him  again  the  day  after, 
and  he  said  it  all  depended  now  on  something 
perfectly  new  and  unheard  of  before,  which 
somebody  else  said  had  just  come  to  the  know- 
ledge of  some  consul  in  some  dispatch  which 
said  something  about  some  telegraph  which  had 
been  at  work  somewhere,  signalising  some  pro- 
digious intelligence.  However,  it  all  passed 
harmlessly  away,  leaving  him  undisturbed  oppor- 
tunity to  avail  himself  of  a pleasure  that  arose 
out  of  the  consul-general’s  dinner  party,  and  to 
be  present  at  a great  reception  given  shortly  after 
by  the  good  “ old  Blunderbore  ” just  mentioned, 
on  the  occasion  of  his  daughter’s  birthday. 

The  Marquis  had  a splendid  house,  but 
Dickens  found  the  grounds  so  carved  into  grot- 
toes and  fanciful  walks  as  to  remind  him  of 
nothing  so  much  as  our  old  White-conduit-house, 
except  that  he  would  have  been  well  pleased,  on 
the  present  occasion,  to  have  discovered  a waiter 
crying,  “ Give  your  orders,  gents  ! ” it  being  not 
easy  to  him  at  any  time  to  keep  up,  the  whole 
night  through,  on  ices  and  variegated  lamps 
merely.  But  the  scene  for  awhile  was  amusing 
enough,  and  not  rendered  less  so  by  the  delight 
of  the  Marquis  himself,  “ who  was  constantly 
diving  out  into  dark  corners  and  then  among  the 
lattice-work  and  flower  pots,  rubbing  his  hands 
and  going  round  and  round  with  explosive 
chuckles  in  his  huge  satisfaction  with  the  enter- 
tainment.” With  horror  it  occurred  to  Dickens, 
however,  that  four  more  hours  of  this  kind  of 
entertainment  would  be  too  much;  that  the 
Genoa  gates  closed  at  twelve ; and  that  as  the 
carriage  had  not  been  ordered  till  the  dancing 
was  expected  to  be  over  and  the  gates  to  reopen, 
he  must  make  a sudden  bolt  if  he  would  himself 
get  back  to  Albaro.  “ I had  barely  time,”  he 
told  me,  “ to  reach  the  gate  before  midnight ; 
and  was  running  as  hard  as  I could  go,  down- 
hill, over  uneven  ground,  along  a new  street, 
called  the  strada  Sevra,  when  I came  to  a pole 
fastened  straight  across  the  street,  nearly  breast 
high,  without  any  light  or  watchman — quite  in 
the  Italian  style.  I went  over  it,  headlong,  with 
such  force  that  I rolled  myself  completely  white 
in  the  dust ; but  although  I tore  my  clothes  to 
shreds,  I hardly  scratched  myself  except  in  one 
place  on  the  knee,  I had  no  time  to  think  of  it 
then,  for  I was  up  directly  and  off  again  to  save 
the  gate  ; but  when  I got  outside  the  wall  and 
saw  the  state  I was  in,  I wondered  I had  not 
broken  my  neck.  I ‘ took  it  easy  ’ after  this, 
and  walked  home,  by  lonely  ways  enough,  with- 
out meeting  a single  soul.  But  there  is  nothing 
to  be  feared,  I believe,  from  midnight  walks  in 


••  VILLA  BAGNERELLO.  159 


this  part  of  Italy.  In  other  places  you  incur  the 
danger  of  being  stabbed  by  mistake  ; whereas 
the  people  here  are  quiet  and  good-tempered, 
and  very  rarely  commit  any  outrage.” 

Such  adventures,  nevertheless, are  seldom  with- 
out consequences,  and  there  followed  in  this  case 
a short  but  sharp  attack  of  illness.  It  came  on 
with  the  old  “ unspeakable  and  agonizing  pain 
in  the  side,”  for  which  Bob  Fagin  had  prepared 
and  applied  the  hot  bottles  in  the  old  warehouse 
time  : and  it  yielded  quickly  to  powerful  reme- 
dies. But  for  a few  days  he  had  to  content 
himself  with  the  minor  sights  of  Albaro.  He  sat 
daily  in  the  shade  of  the  ruined  chapel  on  the 
seashore.  He  looked  in  at  the  festa  in  the 
small  country  church,  consisting  mainly  of  a 
tenor  singer,  a seraphine,  and  four  priests  sitting 
gaping  in  a row  on  one  side  of  the  altar,  “ in 
flowered  satin  dresses  and  little  cloth  caps, 
looking  exactly  like  the  band  at  a wild-beast 
caravan.”  He  was  interested  in  the  wine- 
making, and  in  seeing  the  country  tenants  pre- 
paring their  annual  presents  for  their  landlords, 
of  baskets  of  grapes  and  other  fruit  prettily 
dressed  with  flowers.  The  season  of  the  grapes, 
too,  brought  out  after  dusk  strong  parties  of  rats 
to  eat  them  as  they  ripened,  and  so  many 
shooting  parties  of  peasants  to  get  rid  of  these 
despoilers,  that  as  he  first  listened  to  the  uproar 
of  the  firing  and  the  echoes  he  half  fancied  it  a 
siege  of  Albaro.  The  flies  mustered  strong,  too, 
and  the  mosquitoes  ;*  so  that  at  night  he  had 
to  lie  covered  up  with  gauze,  like  cold  meat  in 
a safe. 

Of  course  all  news  from  England,  and  es- 
pecially visits  paid  him  by  English  friends  who 
might  be  travelling  in  Italy,  were  a great  delight. 
This  was  the  year  when  O’Connell  was  released 
from  prison  by  the  judgment  of  the  Lords  on 
appeal.  “ I have  no  faith  in  O’Connell  taking 
the  great  position  he  might  upon  this  : being 
beleaguered  by  vanity  always.  Denman  delights 
me.  I am  glad  to  think  I have  always  liked 
him  so  well.  I am  sure  that  whenever  he  makes 
a mistake  it  A a mistake ; and  that  no  man  lives 

* What  his  poor  little  dog  suffered  should  not  be 
omitted  from  the  troubles  of  the  master  who  was  so  fond 
of  him.  “ Timber  has  had  every  hair  upon  his  body  cut 
off  because  of  the  fleas,  and  he  looks  like  the  ghost  of  a 
drowned  dog  come  out  of  a pond  after  a week  or  so.  It 
is  very  awful  to  see  him  slide  into  a room.  He  knows 
the  change  upon  him,  and  is  always  turning  round  and 
round  to  look  for  himself.  I think  he’ll  die  of  grief.” 
Three  weeks  later  ; “ Timber’s  hair  is  growing  again,  so 
that  you  can  dimly  perceive  him  to  be  a dog.  The  fleas 
only  keep  three  of  his  legs  off  the  ground  now,  and  he 
sometimes  moves  of  his  own  accord  towards  some  place 
where  they  don’t  want  to  go.”  His  improvement  was 
slow,  but  after  this  continuous. 


i6o  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


who  has  a grander  and  nobler  scorn  of  every 
mean  and  dastard  action.  I would  to  Heaven 
it  were  decorous  to  pay  him  some  public  tribute 

of  respect O’Connell’s  speeches  are  the 

old  thing  : fretty,  boastful,  frothy,  waspish  at  the 
voices  in  the  crowd,  and  all  that : but  with  no 

true  greatness What  a relief  to  turn  to 

that  noble  letter  of  Carlyle’s  ” (in  which  a timely 
testimony  had  been  borne  to  the  truthfulness 
and  honour  of  Mazzini),  “ which  I think  above 
all  praise.  My  love  to  him.”  Among  his  Eng- 
lish visitors  were  Mr.  Tagart’s  family,  on  their 
way  from  a scientific  congress  at  Milan ; and 
Peter  (now  become  Lord)  Robertson  from 
Rome,  of  whose  talk  he  wrote  pleasantly.  The 
sons  of  Burns  had  been  entertained  during  the 
autumn  in  Ayrshire  at  what  was  called  a Burns 
Festival,  of  which,  through  Jerrold  who  was  pre- 
sent, no  very  favourable  account  had  been  sent 
him;  and  this  was  now  confirmed  by  Robert- 
son. “ There  was  one  man  who  spoke  a quarter 
of  an  hour  or  so,  to  the  toast  of  the  navy ; and 
could  say  nothing  more  than  ‘ the — British — 
navy — always  appreciates — ’ which  remarkable 
sentiment  he  repeated  over  and  over  again  for 
that  space  of  time  ; and  then  sat  down. 
Robertson  told  me  also  that  Wilson’s  allusion 
I to,  or  I should  rather  say  expatiation  upon,  the 
i ‘vices’  of  Burns,  excited  but  one  sentiment: 
j and  added,  very  sensibly,  ‘ By  God  ! I want  to 

j know  7ala/  Burns  did ! I never  heard  of  his 

j doing  anything  that  need  be  strange  or  unac- 
I countable  to  the  Professor’s  mind.’  In  short  he 
fully  confirmed  Jerrold  in  all  respects.”  The 
same  letter  told,  too,  something  of  his  reading. 
Jerrold’s  Siory  of  a Fcathcr\\t  had  derived  much 
enjoyment  from.  “ Gauntwolfs  sickness  and  the 
career  of  that  snuffbox,  masterly.  I have  been 
deep  in  Voyages  and  Travels,  and  in  De  Foe. 
Tennyson  I have  also  been  reading,  again  and 
again.  What  a great  creature  he  is.  . . . What 
about  the  Golds?nith  ? Apropos,  I am  all  eager- 
ness to  write  a story  about  the  length  of  his  most 
delightful  of  all  stories.” 

In  the  second  week  of  September  he  went  to 
meet  his  brother  Frederick  at  Marseilles,  and 
bring  him  back  over  the  Cornice  road  to  pass  a 
fortnight’s  holiday  at  Genoa : and  his  descrip- 
tion of  the  first  inn  upon  the  Alps  they  slept  in 
is  too  good  to  be  lost.  “ We  lay  last  night,”  he 
wrote  (9th  of  September)  “at  the  first  halting- 
place  on  this  journey,  in  an  inn  which  is  not 
entitled,  as  it  ought  to  be.  The  house  of  call  for 
fleas  and  vermin  in  general,  but  is  entitled  d'he 
grand  hotel  of  the  Post ! I hardly  know  what 
to  compare  it  to.  It  seemed  something  like  a 
house  in  Somers-town  originally  built  for  a wine- 


vaults  and  never  finished,  but  grown  very  old. 
There  was  nothing  to  eat  in  it  and  nothing  to 
drink.  They  had  lost  the  teapot ; and  when 
they  found  it,  they  couldn’t  make  out  what 
had  become  of  the  lid,  which,  turning  up  at  last 
and  being  fi.xed  on  to  the  teapot,  couldn’t  be  got 
off  again  for  the  pouring  in  of  more  water. 
Fleas  of  elephantine  dimensions  were  gambol- 
ling boldly  in  the  dirty  beds;  and  the  mos- 
quitoes ! — But  here  let  me  draw  a curtain  (as  I 
would  have  done  if  there  had  been  any).  We 
had  scarcely  any  sleep,  and  rose  up  with  hands 
and  arms  hardly  human.” 

In  four  days  they  were  at  Albaro,  and  the 
morning  after  their  arrival  Dickens  underwent 
the  terrible  shock  of  seeing  his  brother  very 
nearly  drowned  in  the  bay.  He  swam  out  into 
too  strong  a current,  and  was  only  narrowly 
saved  by  the  action  of  a fishing-boat  preparing 
to  leave  the  harbour  at  the  time.  “ It  was  a 
world  of  horror  and  anguish,”  Dickens  wrote  to 
me,  “ crowded  into  four  or  five  minutes  of 
dreadful  agitation ; and  to  complete  the  terror 
of  it,  Georgy,  Charlotte  ” (the  nurse),  “ and  the 
children  were  on  a rock  in  full  view  of  it  all, 
crying,  as  you  may  suppose,  like  mad  crea- 
tures.” His  own  bathing  was  from  the  rock, 
and,  as  he  had  already  told  me,  of  the  most  pri- 
mitive kind.  He  went  in  whenever  he  pleased, 
broke  his  head  against  sharp  stones  if  he  went  in  1 
with  that  end  foremost,  floundered  about  till  he 
was  all  over  bruises,  and  then  climbed  and  stag- 
gered out  again.  “ Everybody  wears  a dress. 
Mine  extremely  theatrical.  Masaniello  to  the 
life  : shall  be  preserved  for  your  inspection  in 
Devonshire-terrace.”  I will  add  another  per- 
sonal touch,  also  Masaniello-like,  which  marks 
the  beginning  of  a change  which,  though  confined 
for  the  present  to  his  foreign  residence  and 
removed  when  he  came  to  England,  was  re- 
sumed somewhat  later,  and  in  a few  more  years 
wholly  altered  the  aspect  of  his  face.  “ The 
moustaches  are  glorious,  glorious.  I have  cut 
them  shorter,  and  trimmed  them  a little  at  the 
ends  to  improve  the  shape.  'I'hey  are  charm- 
ing, charming.  Without  them,  life  would  be  a 
blank.” 


V. 

WORK  IN  GENOA  ; PALAZZO  PESCHIERE. 
1X44. 

IN  the  last  week  of  September  they  moved 
from  Albaro  into  Genoa,  amirl  a violent 
storm  of  wind  and  wet,  “ great  guns  blowing,” 


IFO/^A'  IN  GENOA  : PALAZZO  PESCHIERE. 


i6i 


llic  lightning  incessant,  and  the  rain  driving 
down  in  a dense  thick  cloud.  But  the  worst  of  the 
storm  was  over  when  they  reached  the  Peschiere. 
As  they  passed  into  it  along  the  stately  old 
terraces,  flanked  on  either  side  with  antique 
sculptured  figures,  all  the  seven  fountains  were 
playing  in  its  gardens,  and  the  sun  was  shining 
brightly  on  its  groves  of  camellias  and  orange- 
trees. 

It  was  a wonderful  place,  and  I soon  became 
familiar  with  the  several  rooms  that  were  to  form 
their  home  for  the  rest  of  their  stay  in  Italy.  In 
the  centre  was  the  grand  sala,  fifty  feet  high,  of 
an  area  larger  than  “ the  dining-room  of  the 
Academy,”  and  painted,  walls  and  ceiling,  with 
frescoes  three  hundred  years  old,  “ as  fresh  as  if 


the  colours  had  been  laid  on  yesterday."  On 
the  same  floor  as  this  great  hall  were  a drawing- 
room, and  a dining-room,*  both  covered  also 
with  frescoes  still  bright  enough  to  make  them 
thoroughly  cheerful,  and  both  so  nicely  propor- 
tioned as  to  give  to  their  bigness  all  the  effect 
of  snugness,  t Out  of  these  opened  three  other 
chambers  that  were  turned  into  sleeping-rooms 
and  nurseries.  Adjoining  the  sala,  right  and 
left,  were  the  two  best  bed-rooms  ; “ in  si~e  and 
shape  like  those  at  Windsor-castle  but  greatly 
higher;”  both  having  altars,  a range  of  three 
windows  with  stone  balconies,  floors  tesselated 
in  patterns  of  black  and  white  stone,  and  walls 
painted  every  inch  : on  the  left  nymphs  pursued 
by  satyrs  “as  large  as  life  and  as  wicked;”  on 


the  right,  “ Phaeton  larger  than  life,  with 
horses  bigger  than  Meux  and  Co.’s,  tumbling 
headlong  down  into  the  best  bed.”  The  right- 
hand  room  he  occupied  with  his  wife,  and  of  the 
left  took  possession  as  a study ; writing  behind 
a big  screen  he  had  lugged  into  it,  and  placed 
by  one  of  the  windows,  from  which  he  could  see 
over  the  city,  as  he  wrote,  as  far  as  the  lighthouse 
in  its  harbour.  Distant  little  over  a mile  as  the 
crow  flew,  flashing  five  times  in  four  minutes, 
and  on  dark  nights,  as  if  by  magic,  illuminating 
brightly  the  whole  palace-front  every  time  it 
shone,  this  lighthouse  was  one  of  the  wonders  of 
Genoa. 

When  it  had  all  become  more  familiar  to  him, 
he  was  fond  of  dilating  on  its  beauties ; and 
even  the  dreary  sound  of  the  chaunting  from 
neighbouring  mass-performances,  as  it  floated  in 


at  all  the  open  windows,  which  at  first  was  a sad 
trouble,  came  to  have  its  charm  for  him.  I 
remember  a vivid  account  he  gave  me  of  a great 

* “ Into  which  we  might  put  your  large  room — I wish 
we  could  ! — away  in  one  corner,  and  dine  without  know- 
ing it.” 

t “ Very  vast  you  will  say,  and  very  dreary;  but  it  is 
not  so  really.  The  paintings  are  so  fresh,  and  the  pro- 
portions so  agreeable  to  the  eye,  that  the  effect  is  not 

only  cheerful,  but  snug We  are  a httle  incom-  > 

moded  by  applications  from  strangers  to  go  over  the 
interior.  The  paintings  were  designed  by  Michael  An- 
gelo, and  have  a great  reputation Certain  of 

these  frescoes  were  reported  officially  to  the  Fine  Art 

Commissioners  by  Wilson  as  the  best  in  Italy I 

allowed  a party  of  priests  to  be  shown  the  great  hall  yes- 
terday  It  is  in  perfect  repair,  and  the  doors  almost 

shut — which  is  quite  a miraculous  circumstance.  I wish 
you  could  see  it,  my  dear  F.  Gracious  Heavens  ! if  you 
could  only  come  hack  with  me,  wouldn’t  I soon  flash  on 
your  astonished  sight.”  (6th  of  October.) 


i62 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


festa  on  the  hill  behind  the  house,  when  the 
people  alternately  danced  under  tents  in  the 
open  air  and  rushed  to  say  a prayer  or  two  in  an 
adjoining  church  bright  with  red  and  gold  and 
blue  and  silver;  so  many  minutes  of  dancing, 
and  of  praying,  in  regular  turns  of  each.  But 
the  view  over  into  Genoa,  on  clear  bright  days, 
was  a never  failing  enjoyment.  The  whole 
city  then,  without  an  atom  of  smoke,  and 
with  every  possible  variety  of  tower  and  steeple 
pointing  up  into  the  sky,  lay  stretched  out  below 
his  windows.  To  the  right  and  left  were  lofty 
hills,  with  every  indentation  in  their  rugged 
sides  sharply  discernible  ; and  on  one  side  of 
the  harbour  stretched  away  into  the  dim  bright 
distance  the  whole  of  the  Cornice,  its  first 
highest  range  of  mountains  hoary  with  snow. 
Sitting  down  one  Spring  day  to  write  to  me,  he 
thus  spoke  of  the  sea  and  of  the  garden.  “ Be- 
yond the  town  is  the  wide  expanse  of  the  Medi- 
terranean, as  blue,  at  this  moment,  as  the  most 
pure  and  vivid  prussian  blue  on  Mac’s  palette 
when  it  is  newly  set ; and  on  the  horizon  there 
is  a red  flush,  seen  nowhere  as  it  is  here.  Im- 
mediately below  the  windows  are  the  gardens  of 
the  house,  with  gold  fish  swimming  and  diving  in 
the  fountains ; and  below  them,  at  the  foot  of  a 
steep  slope,  the  public  garden  and  drive,  where 
the  walks  are  marked  out  by  hedges  of  pink 
roses,  which  blush  and  shine  through  the  green 
trees  and  vines,  close  up  to  the  balconies  of  these 
windows.  No  custom  can  impair,  and  no  de- 
scription enhance,  the  beauty  of  the  scene.” 

All  these  and  other  glories  and  beauties,  how- 
ever, did  not  come  to  him  at  once.  They 
counted  for  little  indeed  when  he  first  set  him- 
self seriously  to  write.  “ Never  did  I stagger  so 
upon  a threshold  before.  I seem  as  if  I had 
plucked  myself  out  of  my  proper  soil  when  I left 
Devonshire-terrace ; and  could  take  root  no 

more  until  I return  to  it Did  I tell  you 

how  many  fountains  we  have  here?  No  matter. 
If  they  played  nectar,  they  wouldn’t  please  me 
half  so  well  as  the  West  Middlesex  water-works 
at  Devonshire-terrace.”  The  subject  for  his 
new  Christmas  story  he  had  chosen,  but  he  had 
not  found  a title  for  it,  or  the  machinery  to  work 
it  with ; when,  at  the  moment  of  what  seemed 
to  be  his  greatest  trouble,  both  reliefs  came. 
Sitting  down  one  morning  resolute  for  work, 
though  against  the  grain,  his  hand  being  out 
and  everything  inviting  to  idleness,  such  a peal 
of  chimes  arose  from  the  city  as  he  found  to  be 
“ maddening.”  All  Genoa  lay  beneath  him, 
and  up  from  it,  with  some  sudden  set  of  the 
v/ind,  came  in  one  fell  sound  the  clang  and  clash 
of  all  its  steeples,  pouring  into  his  ears,  again 


and  again,  in  a tuneless,  grating,  discordant, 
jerking,  hideous  vibration  that  made  his  ideas 
“ spin  round  and  round  till  they  lost  themselves 
in  a whirl  of  vexation  and  giddiness,  and  dropped 
down  dead.”  He  had  never  before  so  suffered, 
nor  did  he  again  ; but  this  was  his  description 
to  me  next  day,  and  his  excuse  for  having  failed 
in  a promise  to  send  me  his  title.  Only  two 
days  later,  however,  came  a letter  in  which  not 
a syllable  was  written  but  “We  have  heard  the 
Chimes  at  midnight.  Master  Shallow  ! ” and  I 
knew  he  had  discovered  what  he  wanted. 

Other  difficulties  were  still  to  be  got  over. 
He  craved  for  the  London  streets.  He  so 
missed  his  long  night-walks  before  beginning 
anything  that  he  seemed,  as  he  said,  dumbfounded 
without  them.  “ I can’t  help  thinking  of  the 
boy  in  the  school-class  whose  button  was  cut  off 
by  Walter  Scott  and  his  friends.  Put  me  down 
on  Waterloo-bridge  at  eight  o’clock  in  the  even- 
ing,  with  leave  to  roam  about  as  long  as  I like, 
and  I would  come  home,  as  you  know,  panting 
to  go  on.  I am  sadly  strange  as  it  is,  and  can’t 
settle.  You  will  have  lots  of  hasty  notes  from 
me  while  I am  at  work ; but  you  know  your 
man;  and  whatever  strikes  me  I shall  let  off 
upon  you  as  if  I were  in  Devonshire-terrace. 
It’s  a great  thing  to  have  my  title,  and  see  my 
way  how  to  work  the  bells.  Let  them  clash 
upon  me  now  from  all  the  churches  and  convents 
in  Genoa,  I see  nothing  but  the  old  London 
belfry  I have  set  them  in.  In  my  mind’s  eye, 
Horatio,  I like  more  and  more  my  notion  of 
making,  in  this  little  book,  a great  blow  for  the 
poor.  Something  powerful,  I think  I can  do, 
but  I want  to  be  tender  too,  and  cheerful ; as 
like  the  Carol  in  that  respect  as  may  be,  and  as 
unlike  it  as  such  a thing  can  be.  The  duration 
of  the  action  will  resemble  it  a little,  but  I trust 
to  the  novelty  of  the  machinery  to  carry  that  off ; 
and  if  my  design  be  anything  at  all,  it  has  a grip 
upon  the  very  throat  of  the  time.”  (8th  of 
October.) 

Thus  bent  upon  his  work,  for  which  he  never 
had  been  in  more  earnest  mood,  he  was  disturbed 
by  hearing  that  he  must  attend  the  levee  of  the 
Governor  who  had  unexpectedly  arrived  in  the 
city,  and  who  would  take  it  as  an  affront,  his 
eccentric  friend  Fletcher  told  him,  if  that  courtesy 
were  not  immediately  paid.  “ It  was  the  morn- 
ing on  which  I was  going  to  begin,  so  I wrote 
round  to  our  consul,” — praying,  of  course,  that 
excuse  should  be  made  for  him.  Don’t  bother 
yourself,  replied  that  sensible  functionary,  lor  all 
the  consuls  and  governors  alive ; but  shut  your- 
self up  by  all  means.  “ So,”  continues  Dickens, 
telling  me  the  tale,  “ he  went  ne.xt  morning  in 


J 


sjtr 


WORK  IN  GENOA:  PALAZZO  PESCIIIERE.  163 


great  state  and  full  costume,  to  present  two 
I'lnglish  gentlemen.  ‘ Where’s  the  great  poet  ? ’ 
said  the  Governor.  ‘ I want  to  see  the  great 
poet.’  ‘ The  great  poet,  your  excellency,’  said 
the  consul,  ‘ is  at  work,  writing  a book,  and 
begged  me  to  make  his  excuses.’  ‘ Excuses  ! ’ 
said  the  Governor,  ‘ I wouldn’t  interfere  with  such 
an  occupation  for  all  the  world.  Pray  tell  him 
that  my  house  is  open  to  the  honour  of  his  pre- 
sence when  it  is  perfectly  convenient  for  him ; but 
not  otherwise.  And  let  no  gentleman,’  said  the 
Governor,  a surweyin’  of  his  suite  with  a majestic 
eye,  ‘ call  upon  Signor  Dickens  till  he  is  under- 
stood to  be  disengaged.”  And  he  sent  somebody 
with  his  own  cards  next  day.  Now  I do  seriously 
call  this,  real  politeness  and  pleasant  considera- 
tion— not  positively  American,  but  still  gentle- 
manly and  polished..  The  same  spirit  pervades 
the  inferior  departments  ; and  I have  not  been 
required  to  observe  the  usual  police  regulations, 
or  to  put  myself  to  the  slightest  trouble  about 
anything.”  (i8th  of  October.) 

The  picture  I am  now  to  give  of  him  at  work 
should  be  prefaced  by  a word  or  two  that  may 
throw  light  on  the  design  he  was  working  at. 
It  was  a large  theme  for  so  small  an  instrument ; 
and  the  disproportion  was  not  more  characteristic 
of  the  man,  than  the  throes  of  suffering  and 
. passion  to  be  presently  undergone  by  him  for 
, f- results  that  many  men  would  smile  at.  He  was 
bent,  as  he  says,  on  striking  a blow  for  the  poor. 
They  had  always  been  his  clients,  they  had  never 
been  forgotten  in  any  of  his  books,  but  here 
? nothing  else  was  to  be  remembered.  He  had 
, become,  in  short,  terribly  earnest  in  the  matter. 
‘ Several  months  before  he  left  England  I had 
noticed  in  him  the  habit  of  more  gravely  regard- 
ing many  things  before  passed  lightly  enough  j 
the  hopelessness  of  any  true  solution  of  either 
political  or  social  problems  by  the  ordinary 
Downing-street  methods  had  been  startlingly 
impressed  on  him  in  Carlyle’s  writings;  and  in 
the  Parliamentary  talk  of  that  day  he  had  come 
to  have  as  little  faith  for  the  putting  down  of  any 
serious  evil,  as  in  a then  notorious  city  alder- 
man’s gabble  for  the  putting  down  of  suicide. 
The  latter  had  stirred  his  indignation  to  its 
depths  just  before  he  came  to  Italy,  and  his 
increased  opportunities  of  solitary  reflection  since 
had  strengthened  and  extended  it.  When  he 
came  therefore  to  think  of  his  new  story  for 
Christmas  time,  he  resolved  to  make  it  a plea 
for  the  poor.  He  did  not  want  it  to  resemble 
his  Carol,  but  the  same  kind  of  moral  was  in  his 
mind.  He  was  to  try  and  convert  Society,  as 
he  had  converted  Scrooge,  by  showing  that  its 
happiness  rested  on  the  same  foundations  as 


those  of  the  individual,  which  are  mercy  and  1 
charity  not  less  than  justice.  Whether  right  or  I 
wrong  in  these  assumptions,  need  not  be  ques- 
tioned here,  where  facts  are  merely  stated  to 
render  intelligible  what  will  follow ; he  had  not 
made  politics  at  any  time  a study,  and  they  were 
always  an  instinct  with  him  rather  than  a science ; 
but  the  instinct  was  wholesome  and  sound,  and 
to  set  class  against  class  he  never  ceased  to  think 
as  odious  as  he  thought  it  righteous  at  all  times 
to  help  each  to  a kindlier  knowledge  of  the 
other.  And  so  here  in  Italy,  amid  the  grand 
sun-oundings  of  this  Palazzo  Peschiere,  the  hero 
of  his  imagination  was  to  be  a sorry  old  drudge 
of  a London  ticket-porter,  who  in  his  anxiety 
not  to  distrust  or  think  hardly  of  the  rich,  has 
fallen  into  the  opposite  extreme  of  distrusting 
the  poor.  From  such  distrust  it  is  the  object  of 
the  story  to  reclaim  him ; and,  to  the  writer  of 
it,  the  tale  became  itself  of  less  moment  than  what 
he  thus  intended  it  to  enforce.  Far  beyond  mere 
vanity  in  authorship  went  the  passionate  zeal 
with  which  he  began,  and  the  exultation  with 
which  he  finished,  this  task.  When  we  met  at 
its  close,  he  was  fresh  from  Venice,  which  had 
impressed  him  as  the  “ wonder  ” and  “ the  new 
sensation  ” of  the  world  : but  well  do  I remember 
how  high  above  it  all  arose  the  hope  that  filled 
his  mind.  “ Ah  ! ” he  said  to  me,  “ when  I saw 
those  places,  how  I thought  that  to  leave  one’s 
hand  upon  the  time,  lastingly  upon  the  time, 
with  one  tender  touch  for  the  mass  of  toiling 
people  that  nothing  could  obliterate,  would  be 
to  lift  oneself  above  the  dust  of  all  the  Doges  in 
their  graves,  and  stand  upon  a giant’s  staircase 
that  Samson  couldn’t  overthrow  ! ” In  varying 
forms  this  ambition  was  in  all  his  life. 

Another  incident  of  these  days  will  exhibit 
aspirations  of  a more  solemn  import  that  were 
not  less  part  of  his  nature.  It  was  depth  of 
sentiment  rather  than  clearness  of  faith  which 
kept  safe  the  belief  on  which  they  rested  against 
all  doubt  or  question  of  its  sacredness,  but  every 
year  seemed  to  strengthen  it  in  him.  This  was 
told  me  in  his  second  letter  after  reaching  the 
Peschiere ; the  first  having  sent  me  some  such 
commissions  in  regard  to  his  wife’s  family  as  his 
kindly  care  for  all  connected  with  him  frequently 
led  to.  “ Let  me  tell  you,”  he  wrote  (30th  of 
September),  “ of  a curious  dream  I had,  last 
Monday  night ; and  of  the  fragments  of  reality  I 
can  collect,  which  helped  to  make  it  up.  I have 
had  a return  of  rheumatism  in  my  back,  and 
knotted  round  my  waist  like  a girdle  of  pain ; 
and  had  laid  awake  nearly  all  that  night  under 
the  infliction,  when  I fell  asleep  and  dreamed 
this  dream.  Observe  that  throughout  I was  as 


164 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


real,  animated,  and  full  of  passion  as  Macready 
(God  bless  him  !)  in  the  last  scene  of  Macbeth. 
In  an  indistinct  place,  which  was  quite  sublime 
in  its  indistinctness,  I was  visited  by  a Spirit. 

I could  not  make  out  the  face,  nor  do  I recollect 
that  I desired  to  do  so.  It  wore  a blue  drapery, 
as  the  Madonna  might  in  a picture  by  Raphael ; 
and  bore  no  resemblance  to  any  one  I have 
known  except  in  stature.  I think  (but  I am 
not  sure)  that  I recognised  the  voice.  Anyway, 

I knew  it  was  poor  Mary’s  spirit.  I was  not  at 
all  afraid,  but  in  a great  delight,  so  that  I wept 
very  much,  and  stretching  out  my  arms  to  it 
called  it  ‘ Dear.’  At  this,  I thought  it  recoiled ; 
and  I felt  immediately,  that  not  being  of  my 
gross  nature,  I ought  not  to  have  addressed  it  so 
familiarly.  ‘Forgive  me!’  I said.  ‘We  poor 
living  creatures  are  only  able  to  express  our- 
selves by  looks  and  words.  I have  used  the 
word  most  natural  to  otir  affections  \ and  you 
know  my  heart.’  It  was  so  full  of  compassion 
and  sorrow  for  me — which  I knew  spiritually, 
for,  as  I have  said,  I didn’t  perceive  its  emotions 
by  its  face — that  it  cut  me  to  the  heart ; and  I 
said,  sobbing,  ‘ Oh  I give  me  some  token  that 
you  have  really  visited  me  ! ’ ‘ Form  a wish,’  it 

said.  I thought,  reasoning  with  myself : ‘ If  I 
form  a selfish  wish,  it  will  vanish.’  So  I hastily 
discarded  such  hopes  and  anxieties  of  my  own  ‘ 
as  came  into  my  mind,  and  said,  ‘ Mrs.  Hogarth  i 
is  surrounded  with  great  distresses  ’ — observe,  I 
never  thought  of  saying ‘your  mother ’as  to  a 
mortal  creature — ‘ will  you  extricate  her  ? ’ ‘ Yes.’ 

‘ And  her  extrication  is  to  be  a certainty  to  me, 
that  this  has  really  happened  ? ’ ‘Yes.’  ‘But 
answer  me  one  other  question  ! ’ I said,  in  an 
agony  of  entreaty  lest  it  should  leave  me.  ‘ What 
is  the  True  religion?’  As  it  paused  a moment 
without  replying — I said — Good  God,  in  such  ! 
an  agony  of  haste,  lest  it  should  go  away  !— ‘ You 
think,  as  I do,  that  the  Form  of  religion  does  not 
so  greatly  matter,  if  we  try  to  do  good  ? — or,’  I 
said,  observing  that  it  still  hesitated,  and  was 
moved  with  the  greatest  compassion  for  me, 
‘perhaps  the  Roman  Catholic  is  the  best?  per- 
haps it  makes  one  think  of  God  oftener,  and 
believe  in  him  more  steadily  ? ’ ‘ For  you,’ said 

the  Spirit,  full  of  such  heavenly  tenderness  for 
me,  that  I felt  as  if  my  heart  would  break ; ‘ for 
yo?r,  it  is  the  best  I ’ Then  I awoke,  with  the 
tears  running  down  my  face,  and  myself  in  ex- 
actly the  condition  of  the  dream.  It  was  just 
dawn.  I called  up  Kate,  and  repeated  it  three 
or  four  times  over,  that  1 might  not  unconsciously 
make  it  plainer  or  stronger  afterwards.  It  was 
exactly  this.  Free  from  all  hurry,  nonsense,  or 
confusion,  whatever.  Now,  the  strings  I can 


gather  up,  leading  to  this,  were  three.  The  first 
you  know,  from  the  main  subject  of  my  last 
letter.  The  second  was,  that  there  is  a great 
altar  in  our  bedroom,  at  which  some  family  who 
once  inhabited  this  palace  had  mass  performed 
in  old  time : and  I had  observed  within  myself, 
before  going  to  bed,  that  there  was  a mark  in 
the  wall,  above  the  sanctuary,  where  a religious 
picture  used  to  be ; and  I had  wondered  within 
myself  what  the  subject  might  have  been,  auL 
what  the  face  was  like.  Thirdly,  I had  been 
listening  to  the  convent  bells  (which  ring  at 
intervals  in  the  night),  and  so  had  thought,  no 
doubt,  of  Roman  Catholic  services.  And  yet, 
for  all  this,  put  the  case  of  that  wish  being  ful- 
filled by  any  agency  in  which  I had  no  hand  ; 
and  I wonder  whether  I should  regard  it  as  a 
dream,  or  an  actual  Vision  ! ” It  was  perhaps 
natural  that  he  should  omit,  from  his  own  con- 
siderations awakened  by  the  dream,  the  very  first 
that  would  have  risen  in  any  mind  to  whicli  his 
was  intimately  known — that  it  strengthens  other 
evidences,  of  which  there  are  many  in  his  life,  of 
his  not  having  escaped  those  trying  regions  of 
reflection  which  most  men  of  thought,  and  all 
men  of  genius  have  at  some  time  to  pass  through. 
In  such  disturbing  fancies  during  the  next  year 
or  two  I may  add  that  the  book  which  helped 
him  most  was  dao  Life  of  Arnold.  “I  respect 
and  reverence  his  memory,”  he  wrote  to  me  in 
the  middle  of  October,  in  reply  to  my  mention 
of  what  had  most  attracted  myself  in  it,  “ beyond 
all  expression.  I must  have  that  book.  Every 
sentence  that  you  quote  from  it  is  the  text-book 
of  my  faith.” 

He  kept  his  promise  that  I should  hear  from 
him  while  writing,  and  I had  frequent  letters 
when  he  was  fairly  in  his  work.  “ With  m.)- 
steam  very  much  up,  I find  it  a great  trial  to  be 
so  far  off  from  you,  and  consequently  to  have  no 
one  (always  excepting  Kate  and  Georgy)  to  whom 
to  e.xpatiate  on  my  day’s  work.  And  I want  a 
crowded  street  to  plunge  into  at  night.  And  I 
want  to  be  ‘ on  the  spot  ’ as  it  were.  But  a[)art 
from  such  things,  the  life  I lead  is  favourable  to 
work.”  In  his  next  letter : “ I am  in  regular, 
ferocious  excitement  with  the  Chimes:  get  up  at 
seven  ; have  a cold  bath  before  breakfast ; and 
blaze  awa)’,  wrathful  and  retl-hot,  until  three 
o’clock  or  so  : when  I usually  knock  oft  (unless 

it  rains)  for  the  day I am  iierce  to  finish 

in  a spirit  bearing  some  affinity  to  those  of  truth 
and  mercy,  and  to  shame  the  cruel  and  the  cant- 
ing. I have  not  forgotten  my  catechism.  ‘ Yes, 
verily,  and  with  God’s  help,  so  I will  1 ’ ” 

Within  a week  he  had  completed  his  first  part, 
or  quarter.  “I  send  you  to-day”  (i8th  of 


I 


IFOA’A'  IN  GENOA  : PALAZZO  PESCIIIERE. 


October),  “by  mail,  the  first  and  longest  of  the 
four  divisions.  This  is  great  for  the  first  week, 
which  is  usually  up-hill.  I have  kept  a copy  in 
shorthand  in  case  of  accidents.  I hope  to  send 
you  a parcel  every  Monday  until  the  whole  is 
done.  I do  not  wish  to  influence  you,  but  it 
has  a great  hold  upon  me,  and  has  affected  me,  in 
the  doing,  in  divers  strong  ways,  deeply,  forcibly. 
To  give  you  better  means  of  judgment  I will 
sketch  for  you  the  general  idea,  but  pray  don’t 
read  it  until  you  have  read  this  first  part  of  the 
MS.”  I print  it  here.  It  is  a good  illustration 
of  his  method  in  all  his  writing.  His  idea  is  in 
it  so  thoroughly,  that,  by  comparison  with  the 
tale  as  printed,  we  see  the  strength  of  its  mastery 
over  his  first  design.  Thus  always,  whether  his 
tale  was  to  be  written  in  one  or  in  twenty  numbers, 
his  fancies  controlled  him.  He  never,  in  any  of 
his  books,  accomplished  what  he  had  wholly 
preconceived,  often  as  he  attempted  it.  Few 
men  of  genius  ever  did.  Once  at  the  sacred 
heat  that  opens  regions  beyond  ordinary  vision, 
imagination  has  its  own  laws;  and  where  cha- 
racters are  so  real  as  to  be  treated  as  existences, 
their  creator  himself  cannot  help  them  having 
their  own  wills  and  ways.  Fern  the  farm- 
labourer  is  not  here,  nor  yet  his  niece  the  little 
Lilian  (at  first  called  Jessie)  who  is  to  give  to  the 
tale  its  most  tragical  scene ; and  there  are  inti- 
mations of  poetic  fancy  at  the  close  of  my  sketch 
which  the  published  story  fell  short  of.  Alto- 
gether the  comparison  is  worth  observing. 

“ The  general  notion  is  this.  That  what 
liappens  to  poor  Trotty  in  the  first  part,  and 
what  will  happen  to  him  in  the  second  (when  he 
takes  the  letter  to  a punctual  and  a great  man  of 
business,  who  is  balancing  his  books  and  making 
up  his  accounts,  and  complacently  expatiating  on 
the  necessity  of  clearing  off  every  liability  and 
obligation,  and  turning  over  a new  leaf  and  start- 
ing fresh  with  the  new  year),  so  dispirits  him, 
who  can’t  do  this,  that  he  comes  to  the  con- 
clusion that  his  class  and  order  have  no  business 
with  a new  year,  and  really  are  ‘ intruding.’  And 
though  he  will  pluck  up  for  an  hour  or  so,  at  the 
christening  (I  think)  of  a neighbour’s  child,  that 
evening : still,  when  he  goes  home,  Mr.  Filer’s 
precepts  will  come  into  his  mind,  and  he  will 
say  to  himself,  ‘ we  are  a long  way  past  the 
proper  average  of  children,  and  it  has  no  busi- 
ness to  be  born ; ’ and  will  be  wretched  again. 
And  going  home,  and  sitting  there  alone,  he  will 
take  that  newspaper  out  of  his  pocket,  and  read- 
ing of  the  crimes  and  offences  of  the  poor,  espe- 
cially of  those  whom  Alderman  Cute  is  going  to 
put  down,  will  be  quite  confirmed  in  his  mis- 
giving that  they  are  bad  ; irredeemably  bad.  In 
Life  of  Charles  Dickens,  12. 


165 


this  state  of  mind  he  will  fancy  that  the  Chimes 
are  calling  to  him  ; and  saying  to  himself  ‘ God 
help  me.  Let  me  go  up  to  ’em.  I feel  as  if  I 
were  going  to  die  in  despair — of  a broken  heart ; 
let  me  die  among  the  bells  that  have  been  a com- 
fort to  me  ! ’ — will  grope  his  way  up  into  the 
tower ; and  fall  down  in  a kind  of  swoon  among 
them.  Then  the  third  quarter,  or  in  other  words 
the  beginning  of  the  second  half  of  the  book, 
will  open  with  the  Goblin  part  of  the  thing : the 
bells  ringing,  and  innumerable  spirits  (the  sound 
or  vibration  of  them)  flitting  and  tearing  in  and 
out  of  the  church-steeple,  and  bearing  all  sorts 
of  missions  and  commissions  and  reminders  and 
reproaches,  and  comfortable  recollections  and 
what  not,  to  all  sorts  of  people  and  places. 
Some  bearing  scourges ; and  others  flowers,  and 
birds,  and  music ; and  others  pleasant  faces  in 
mirrors,  and  others  ugly  ones ; the  bells  haunt- 
ing people  in  the  night  (especially  the  last  of  the 
old  year)  according  to  their  deeds.  And  the 
bells  themselves,  who  have  a goblin  likeness  to 
humanity  in  the  midst  of  their  proper  shapes, 
and  who  shine  in  a light  of  their  own,  will  say 
(the  Great  Bell  being  the  chief  spokesman)  Who 
is  he  that  being  of  the  poor  doubts  the  right  of 
poor  men  to  the  inheritance  which  Time  reserves 
for  them,  and  echoes  an  unmeaning  cry  against 
his  fellows  ? Toby,  all  aghast,  v/ill  tell  him  it  is 
he,  and  why  it  is.  Then  the  spirits  of  the  bells 
will  bear  him  through  the  air  to  various  scenes, 
charged  with  this  trust : That  they  show  him 

how  the  poor  and  wretched,  at  the  worst — yes, 
even  in  the  crimes  that  aldermen  put  down,  and 
he  has  thought  so  horrible — have  some  deformed 
and  hunch-backed  goodness  clinging  to  them ; 
and  how  they  have  their  right  and  share  in  Time. 
Following  out  the  history  of  Meg,  the  Bells  will 
show  her,  that  marriage  broken  off  and  all 
friends  dead,  with  an  infant  child ; reduced  so 
low,  and  made  so  miserable,  as  to  be  brought  at 
last  to  wander  out  at  night.  And  in  Toby’s 
sight,  her  father’s,  she  will  resolve  to  drown  her- 
self and  the  child  together.  But  before  she  goes 
down  to  the  water,  Toby  will  see  how  she  covers 
it  with  a part  of  her  own  wretched  dress,  and 
adjusts  its  rags  so  as  to  make  it  pretty  in  its 
sleep,  and  hangs  over  it,  and  smooths  its  little 
limbs,  and  loves  it  with  the  dearest  love  that 
God  ever  gave  to  mortal  creatures;  and  when 
she  runs  down  to  the  water,  Toby  will  cry,  ‘ Oh 
spare  her ! Chimes,  have  mercy  on  her  ! Stop 
her  ! ’ — and  the  bells  will  say,  ‘ Why  stop  her  ? 
She  is  bad  at  heart — let  the  bad  die.’  And  Toby 
on  his  knees  will  beg  and  pray  for  mercy  : and 
in  the  end  the  bells  will  stop  her,  by  their  voices, 
just  in  time.  Toby  will  see,  too,  what  great 

420 


i66  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DLCICENS. 


things  the  punctual  man  has  left  undone  on  the 
close  of  the  old  year,  and  what  accounts  he  has 
left  unsettled : punctual  as  he  is.  And  he  will 
see  a great  many  things  about  Richard,  once  so 
near  being  his  sondn-law,  and  about  a great 
many  people.  And  the  moral  of  it  all  will  be, 
that  he  has  his  portion  in  the  new  year  no  less 
than  any  other  man,  and  that  the  poor  require  a 
deal  of  beating  out  of  shape  before  their  human 
shape  is  gone ; that  even  in  their  frantic  wicked- 
ness there  may  be  good  in  their  hearts  triumph- 
antly asserting  itself,  though  all  the  aldermen 
alive  say  ‘No,’  as  he  has  learnt  from  the  agony 
’ of  his  own  child ; and  that  the  truth  is  Trustful- 
ness in  them,  not  doubt,  nor  putting  down,  nor 
ifiling  them  away.  And  when  at  last  a great  sea 
rises,  and  this  sea  of  Time  comes  sweeping  down, 
bearing  the  alderman  and  such  mudworms  of  the 
earth  away  to  nothing,  dashing  them  to  fragments 
in  its  fury — Toby  will  climb  a rock  and  hear  the 
bells  (now  faded  from  his  sight)  pealing  out  upon 
the  waters.  And  as  he  hears  them,  and  looks 
round  for  help,  he  will  wake  up  and  find  himself 
with  the  newspaper  lying  at  his  foot ; and  Meg 
sitting  opposite  to  him  at  the  table,  making  up 
the  ribbons  for  her  wedding  to-morrow ; and  the 
window  open,  that  the  sound  of  the  bells  ringing 
the  old  year  out  and  the  new  year  in  may  enter. 
They  will  just  have  broken  out,  joyfully;  and 
Richard  will  dash  in  to  kiss  Meg  before  Toby, 
and  have  the  first  kiss  of  the  new  year  (he’ll  get 
it  too) ; and  the  neighbours  will  crowd  round 
with  good  wishes;  and  a band  will  strike  up 
gaily  (Toby  knows  a Drum  in  private);  and  the 
altered  circumstances,  and  the  ringing  of  the 
bells,  and  the  jolly  musick,  will  so  transport  the 
old  fellow  that  he  will  lead  off  a country  dance 
forthwith  in  an  entirely  new  step,  consisting  of 
his  old  familiar  trot.  Then  quoth  the  inimitable 
— Was  it  a dream  of  Toby’s  after  all?  Or  is 
,Toby  but  a dream?  and  Meg  a dream  ? and  all 
, a dream  ! In  reference  to  which,  and  the  reali- 
; ties  of  which  dreams  are  born,  the  inimitable 

(will  be  wiser  than  he  can  be  now,  writing  for 
dear  life,  with  the  post  just  going,  and  the  brave 
C booted.  ....  Ah  how  I hate  myself,  my 
dear  fellow,  for  this  lame  and  halting  outline  of 
the  Vision  I have  in  my  mind.  But  it  must  go 

to  you You  will  say  what  is  best  for  the 

frontispiece ” 

With  the  second  part  or  quarter,  after  a week’s 
interval,  came  announcement  of  the  enlarge- 
ment of  his  plan,  by  which  he  hoped  better  to 
carry  out  the  scheme  of  the  story,  and  to  get, 
for  its  following  part,  an  effect  for  his  heroine 
that  would  increase  the  tragic  interest.  “ I am 
still  in  stout  heart  with  the  tale.  I think  it 


well-timed  and  a good  thought;  and  as  you 
know  I wouldn’t  say  so  to  anybody  else,  I don’t 
mind  saying  freely  thus  much.  It  has  great 
possession  of  me  every  moment  in  the  day ; and 

drags  me  where  it  will If  you  only  could 

have  read  it  all  at  once ! — But  you  never  would 
have  done  that,  anyway,  for  I never  should  have 
been  able  to  keep  it  to  myself ; so  that’s  non- 
sense. I hope  you’ll  like  it.  I would  give  a 
hundred  pounds  (and  think  it  cheap)  to  see  you 
read  it Never  mind.” 

That  was  the  first  hint  of  an  intention  of 
which  I was  soon  to  hear  again  ; but  meanwhile, 
after  eight  more  days,  the  third  part  came,  with 
the  scene  from  which  he  expected  so  much,  and 
with  a mention  of  what  the  writing  of  it  had 
cost  him.  “ This  book  (whether  in  the  Hajji 
Baba  sense  or  not  I can’t  say,  but  certainly  in 
the  literal  one)  has  made  my  face  white  in  a 
foreign  land.  My  cheeks,  which  were  beginning 
to  fill  out,  have  sunk  again;  my  eyes  have 
grown  immensely  large ; my  hair  is  very  lank ; 
and  the  head  inside  the  hair  is  hot  and  giddy. 
Read  the  scene  at  the  end  of  the  third  part, 
twice.  I wouldn’t  write  it  twice  for  something. 
....  You  will  see  that  I have  substituted  the 
name  of  Lilian  for  Jessie.  It  is  prettier  in  sound, 
and  suits  my  music  better.  I mention  this,  lest 
you  should  wonder  who  and  what  I mean  by 
that  name.  To-morrow  I shall  begin  afresh 
(starting  the  next  part  with  a broad  grin,  and 
ending  it  with  the  very  soul  of  jollity  and  happi- 
ness) ; and  I hope  to  finish  by  next  Monday  at 
latest.  Perhaps  on  Saturday.  I hope  you  will 
like  the  little  book.  Since  I conceived,  at  the 
beginning  of  the  second  part,  what  must  happen 
in  the  third,  I have  undergone  as  much  sorrow 
and  agitation  as  if  the  thing  were  real ; and  have 
wakened  up  with  it  at  night.  I was  obliged  to 
lock  myself  in  when  I finished  it  yesterday,  for 
my  face  was  swollen  for  the  time  to  twice  its 
proper  size,  and  was  hugely  ridiculous.”  .... 
His  letter  ended  abruptly.  “ I am  going  for  a 
long  walk,  to  clear  my  head.  I feel  that  I am 
very  shaky  from  work,  and  throw  down  my  pen 
for  the  day.  There  ! (That’s  where  it  fell.)”  A 
huge  blot  represented  it,  and,  as  Hamlet  says, 
the  rest  was  silence. 

Two  days  later,  answering  a letter  from  me 
that  had  reached  in  the  interval,  he  gave  si)right- 
lier  account  of  himself,  and  described  a happy 
change  in  the  weather.  Up  to  this  time,  he 
protested,  they  had  not  had  more  than  four  or  five 
clear  days.  All  the  time  he  had  been  writing 
they  had  been  wild  and  stormy.  “ Wind,  hail, 
rain,  thunder  and  lightning.  To-day,”  just  be- 
fore he  sent  me  his  last  manuscript,  “ has  been 


Jro/^A'  IN  GENOA : FALAZZO  PESCIIIERE. 


November  slack-baked,  the  sirocco  having  come 
back ; and  to-night  it  blows  great  guns  with  a 
raging  storm.”  “ Weather  worse,”  he  wrote 
after  three  Mondays,  “ than  any  November 
English  weather  I have  ever  beheld,  or  any 
weather  I have  had  experience  of  anywhere. 
So  horrible  to-day  that  all  power  has  been  rained 
and  gloomed  out  of  me.  Yesterday,  in  pure 
determination  to  gel  the  better  of  it,  I walked 
twelve  miles  in  mountain  rain.  You  never  saw 
it  rain.  Scotland  and  America  are  nothing  to 
it.”  But  now  all  this  was  over.  “The  weather 
changed  on  Saturday  night,  and  has  been  glorious 
ever  since.  I am  afraid  to  say  more  in  its 
favour,  lest  it  should  change  again.”  It  did  not. 
I think  there  were  no  more  complainings.  I 
heard  now  of  autumn  days,  with  the  mountain 
wind,  lovely,  enjoyable,  exquisite  past  expres- 
sion. I heard  of  mountain  walks  behind  the  Pes- 
chiere,  most  beautiful  and  fresh,  among  which, 
and  along  the  beds  of  dry  rivers  and  torrents, 
he  could  “ pelt  away,”  in  any  dress,  without 
encountering  a soul  but  the  contadini.  I heard 
of  his  starting  off  one  day  after  finishing  work, 
“ fifteen  miles  to  dinner- — oh  my  stars  ! at  such 
an  inn  ! ! ! ” On  another  day,  of  a party  to 
dinner  at  their  pleasant  little  banker’s  at  Quinto 
six  miles  off,  to  which,  while  the  ladies  drove, 
he  was  able  “ to  walk  in  the  sun  of  the  middle 
of  the  day  and  to  walk  home  again  at  night.” 
On  another,  of  an  expedition  up  the  mountain 
on  mules.  And  on  another  of  a memorable 
tavern-dinner  with  their  merchant  friend  Mr. 
Curry,  in  which  there  were  such  successions  of 
surprising  dishes  of  genuine  native  cookery  that 
they  took  two  hours  in  the  serving,  but  of  the 
component  parts  of  not  one  of  which  was  he 
able  to  form  the  remotest  conception  : the  site 
of  the  tavern  being  on  the  city  wall,  its  name  in 
Italian  sounding  very  romantic  and  meaning 
“ the  Whistle,”  and  its  bill  of  fare  kept  for  an 
experiment  to  which,  before  another  month 
should  be  over,  he  challenged  my  cookery  in 
Lincoln’s-inn. 

A visit  from  him  to  London  was  to  be  ex- 
pected almost  immediately  ! That  all  remon- 
strance would  be  idle,  under  the  restless  excite- 
ment his  work  had  awakened,  I well  knew.  It 
was  not  merely  the  wish  he  had,  natural  enough, 
to  see  the  last  proofs  and  the  woodcuts  before 
the  day  of  publication,  which  he  could  not 
otherwise  do ; but  it  was  the  stronger  and  more 
' eager  wish,  before  that  final  launch,  to  have  a 
vivider  sense  than  letters  could  give  him  of  the 
I effect  of  what  he  had  been  doing.  “ If  I come, 
I shall  put  up  at  Cuttris’s  ” (then  the  Piazza- 
hotel  in  Covent-garden),  “ that  I may  be  close 


1C7 


to  you.  Don’t  say  to  anybody,  except  our  im- 
mediate friends,  that  I am  coming.  Then  I 
shall  not  be  bothered.  If  I should  preserve  my 
present  fierce  writing  humour,  in  any  pass  I may 
run  to  Venice,  Bologna,  and  Florence,  before  I 
turn  my  face  towards  Lincoln’s-inn-fields  ; and 
come  to  England  by  Milan  and  Turin.  But  this 
of  course  depends  in  a great  measure  on  your 
reply.”  My  reply,  dwelling  on  the  fatigue  and 
cost,  had  the  reception  I foresaw.  “ Notwith- 
standing what  you  say,  I am  still  in  the  same 
mind  about  coming  to  London.  Not  because 
the  proofs  concern  me  at  all  (I  should  be  an  ass 
as  well  as  a thankless  vagabond  if  they  did),  but 
because  of  that  unspeakable  restless  something 
which  would  render  it  almost  as  impossible  for 
me  to  remain  here  and  not  see  the  thing  com- 
plete, as  it  would  be  for  a full  balloon,  left  to 
itself,  not  to  go  up.  I do  not  intend  coming 
from  /lere,  but  by  way  of  Milan  and  Turin  (pre- 
viously going  to  Venice),  and  so,  across  the 
wildest  pass  of  the  Alps  that  may  be  open,  to 

Strasburg As  you  dislike  the  Young 

England  gentleman  I shall  knock  him  out,  and 
replace  him  by  a man  (I  can  dash  him  in  at 
your  rooms  in  an  hour)  who  recognizes  no  virtue 
in  anything  but  the  good  old  times,  and  talks  of 
them,  parrot-like,  whatever  the  matter  is.  A 
real  good  old  city  tory,  in  a blue  coat  and  bright 
buttons  and  a white  cravat,  and  with  a tendency 
of  blood  to  the  head.  File  away  at  Filer,  as 
you  please ; but  bear  in  mind  that  the  fPirV- 
minster'  Review  considered  Scrooge’s  presenta- 
tion of  the  turkey  to  Bob  Cratchit  as  grossly 
incompatible  with  political  economy.  I don’t 
care  at  all  for  the  skittle-playing.”  These  were 
among  things  I had  objected  to. 

But  the  close  of  his  letter  revealed  more  than 
its  opening  of  the  reason,  not  at  once  so  frankly 
confessed,  for  the  long  winter-journey  he  was 
about  to  make;  and  if  it  be  thought  that,  in 
printing  the  passage,  I take  a liberty  with  my 
friend,  it  will  be  found  that  equal  liberty  is  taken 
with  myself,  whom  it  good-naturedly  caricatures  ; 
so  that  the  reader  can  enjoy  his  laugh  at  either 
or  both.  “ Shall  I confess  to  you,  I particularly 
want  Carlyle  above  all  to  see  it  before  the  rest 
of  the  world,  when  it  is  done ; and  I should 
like  to  inflict  the  little  story  on  him  and  on  dear 
old  gallant  Macready  with  my  own  lips,  and  to 
have  Stanny  and  the  other  Mac  sitting  by. 
Now,  if  you  was  a real  gent,  you’d  get  up  a little 
circle  for  me,  one  wet  evening,  when  I come  to 
town : and  would  say,  ‘ My  boy  (sir,  will  you 
have  the  goodness  to  leave  those  books  alone 
and  to  go  downstairs — What  the  Devil  are  you 
doing  ! And  mind,  sir,  I can  see  nobody — Do 


1 68 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DLCKENS. 


you  hear?  Nobody.  I am  i)articularly  engaged 
with  a gentleman  from  Asia) — My  bo)',  would 
you  give  us  that  little  Christmas  book  (a  little 
Christmas  book  of  Dickens’s,  Macready,  which 
I’m  anxious  you  should  ’near) ; and  don’t  slur  it, 
now,  or  be  too  fast,  Dickens,  ]dease  ! ’ — I say,  if 
you  was  a real  gent,  something  to  this  effect 
might  happen.  I shall  be  under  sailing  orders 
the  moment  I have  finished.  And  I shall  pro- 
duce myself  (please  God)  in  London  on  the  very 
day  you  name.  For  one  week  : to  the  hour.” 

The  wish  was  complied  with,  of  course ; and 
that  night  in  Lincoln’s-inn-fields  led  to  rather 
memorable  issues.  His  next  letter  told  me  the 
little  tale  was  done.  “ Third  of  November, 
1844.  Half-past  two,  afternoon.  Thank  God  ! 
I have  finished  the  Chimes.  This  moment.  I 
take  up  my  pen  again  to-day,  to  say  only  that 
much ; and  to  add  that  I have  had  what  women 
call  ‘ a real  good  cry.’  ” Very  genuine  all  this, 
it  is  hardly  necessary  to  say.  The  little  book 
thus  completed  was  not  one  of  his  greater  suc- 
cesses, and  it  raised  him  up  some  objectors ; 
but  there  was  that  in  it  which  more  than  repaid 
the  suffering  its  writing  cost  him,  and  the  enmity 
its  opinions  provoked  \ and  in  his  own  heart  it 
had  a cherished  corner  to  the  last.  The  inten- 
sity of  it  seemed  always  best  to  represent  to 
himself  what  he  hoped  to  be  longest  remembered 
for ; and  exactly  what  he  felt  as  to  this,  his  friend 
Jeffrey  warmly  expressed.  “All  the  tribe  of 
selfishness,  and  cowardice  and  cant,  will  hate 
you  in  their  hearts,  and  cavil  when  they ’can  ; 
will  accuse  you  of  wicked  exaggeration,  and 
excitement  to  discontent,  and  what  they  plea- 
santly call  disaffection  ! But  never  mind.  The 
good  and  the  brave  are  with  you,  and  the  truth 
also.” 

He  resumed  his  letter  on  the  fourth  of  Novem- 
ber. “ Here  is  the  brave  courier  measuring  bits 
of  maps  with  a carving  fork,  and  going  up  moun- 
tains on  a teaspoon.  He  and  1 start  on  Wed- 
nesday for  Parma,  Modena,  Bologna,  Venice, 
Verona,  Brescia,  and  Milan.  Milan  being  within 
a reasonable  journey  from  here,  Kate  and  Georgy 
will  come  to  meet  me  when  I arrive  there  on  my 
way  towards  England ; and  will  bring  me  all 
letters  from  you.  1 shall  be  there  on  the  i8th. 
. . . . Now,  you  know  my  punctiwality.  Frost, 
ice,  flooded  rivers,  steamers,  horses,  passports, 
and  custom-houses  may  damage  it.  But  my  de- 
sign is,  to  walk  into  Guttris’s  coffee-room  on 
Sunday  the  ist  of  December,  in  good  time  for 
dinner.  I shall  look  for  you  at  the  farther  table 

by  the  fire — where  we  generally  go But 

the  party  for  the  night  following  ? 1 know  you 

have  consented  to  the  party.  Let  me  see. 


Don’t  have  any  one,  this  particular  night,  to 
dinner,  but  let  it  be  a summons  for  the  special 
purpose  at  half-past  6.  Carlyle,  indispensable, 
and  I should  like  his  wife  of  all  things  : her 
judgment  would  be  invaluable.  You  will  ask 
Mac,  and  why  not  his  sister?  Stanny  and 
Jerrold  I should  particularly  wish  ; Edwin  Land- 
seer ; Blanchard  ; perhaps  Harness  ; and  what 
say  you  to  Fonblanque  and  Eox  ? I leave  it  to 

you.  You  know  the  effect  I want  to  try 

Think  the  Chimes  a letter,  my  dear  fellow,  and 
forgive  this.  I will  not  fail  to  write  to  you  on 
my  travels.  Most  probably  from  Venice.  And 
when  I meet  you  (in  sound  health  I hope)  oh 
Heaven  ! what  a week  we  will  have.” 


VI. 

ITALIAN  TRAVEL. 

1844. 

O it  all  fell  out  accordingly.  He 
parted  from  his  disconsolate  wife, 
as  he  told  me  in  his  first  letter 
from  Ferrara,  on  Wednesday  the 
6th  of  November  : left  her  shut  up 
in  her  palace  like  a baron’s  lady 
in  the  time  of  the  crilsades ; and  had 
his  first  real  experience  of  the  wonders 
of  Italy.  He  saw  Parma,  Modena,  Bologna, 
Ferrara,  Venice,  Verona,  and  Mantua.  As  to 
all  which  the  impressions  conveyed  to  me  in  his 
letters  have  been  more  or  less  given  in  his  pub- 
lished Pictures.  They  are  charmingly  expressed. 
There  is  a sketch  of  a cicerone  at  Bologna 
which  will  remain  in  his  books  among  their 
many  delightful  examples  of  his  unerring  and 
loving  perception  for  every  gentle,  heavenly, 
and  tender  soul,  under  whatever  conventional 
disguise  it  wanders  here  on  earth,  whether  as 
poorhouse  orphan  or  lawyer’s  clerk,  architect’s 
pupil  at  Salisbury  or  cheerful  little  guide  to 
graves  at  Bologna ; and  there  is  another  memo- 
rable description  in  his  Rembrandt  sketch,  in 
form  of  a dream,  of  the  silent,  unearthly,  watery 
wonders  of  Venice.  'Phis  last,  though  not 
written  until  after  his  London  visit,  had  been 
prefigured  so  vividly  in  what  he  wrote  at  once 
from  the  spot,  that  those  passages  from  his 
letter  * may  be  read  still  with  a quite  undi- 

* “I  began  this  letter,  my  dear  friend  ” (lie  wrote  it 
from  Venice  on  Tuesday  night  the  12th  of  November), 
“ with  tlie  intention  of  describing  my  travels  as  I went 
on.  But  I have  seen  so  much,  and  tr.avelled  so  hard 
(seldom  dining,  and  being  almost  alw.ays  up  by  candle 
light),  that  I must  reserve  my  crayons  for  the  greater 


ITALIAN 


minished  interest.  “ I must  not,”  he  said, 
“ anticipate  myself.  But,  ‘ my  dear  fellow, 
nothing  in  the  world  that  ever  you  have  heard 
of  Venice,  is  equal  to  the  magnificent  and  stu- 
pendous reality.  The  wildest  visions  of  the 
Arabian  Nights  are  nothing  to  the  piazza  of 
Saint  Mark,  and  the  first  impression  of  the  in- 
side of  the  church.  The  gorgeous  and  wonder- 
ful reality  of  Venice  is  beyond  the  fancy  of  the 
wildest  dreamer.  Opium  couldn’t  build  such  a 
place,  and  enchantment  couldn’t  shadow  it  forth 
in  a vision.  All  that  I have  heard  of  it,  read  of 
it  in  truth  or  fiction,  fancied  of  it,  is  left  thou- 
sands of  miles  behind.  You  know  that  I am 
liable  to  disappointment  in  such  things  from 
over-expectation,  but  Venice  is  above,  beyond, 
out  of  all  reach  of  coming  near,  the  imagination 
of  a man.  It  has  never  been  rated  high  enough. 
It  is  a thing  you  would  shed  tears  to  see.  When 
I came  on  board  here  last  night  (after  a five 
miles’  row  in  a gondola ; which,  somehow  or 
other,  I wasn’t  at  all  prepared  for) ; when,  from 
seeing  the  city  lying,  one  night,  upon  the  distant 
water,  like  a ship,  I came  plashing  through  the 
silent  and  deserted  streets ; I felt  as  if  the 
houses  were  reality — the  water,  fever-madness. 
But  when,  in  the  bright,  cold  bracing  day,  I 
stood  upon  the  piazza  this  morning,  by  Heaven 
the  glory  of  the  place  was  insupportable  ! And 
diving  down  from  that  into  its  wickedness  and 
gloom — its  awful  prisons  deep  below  the  water ; 
its  judgment  chambers,  secret  doors,  deadly 
nooks,  where  the  torches  you  carry  with  you 
blink  as  if  they  couldn’t  bear  the  air  in  which 
the  frightful  scenes  were  acted ; and  coming  out 
again  into  the  radiant,  unsubstantial  Magic  of 
the  town ; and  diving  in  again,  into  vast 
churches,  and  old  tombs — a new  sensation,  a 
new  memory,  a new  mind  came  upon  me. 
Venice  is  a bit  of  my  brain  from  this  time.  My 
dear  Forster,  if  you  could  share  my  transports 
(as  you  would  if  you  were  here)  what  would  I 

leisure  of  the  Peschiere  after  we  have  met,  and  I have 
again  returned  to  it.  As  soon  as  I have  fixed  a place  in 
my  mind,  I bolt — at  such  strange  seasons  and  at  such 
unexpected  angles,  that  the  brave  C stares  again.  But 
in  this  way,  and  by  insisting  on  having  everything  shewn 
to  me  whether  or  no,  and  against  all  precedents  and 
orders  of  proceeding,  I get  on  wonderfully.”  Two  days 
before  he  had  written  to  me  from  Ferrara,  after  the  very 
pretty  description  of  the  vineyards  between  Piacenza  and 
Parma  which  will  be  found  in  the  Pictures  from  Italy 
(pp.  203-4) : “ If  you  want  an  antidote  to  this,  I may 
observe  that  I got  up,  this  moment,  to  fasten  the  win- 
dow ; and  the  street  looked  as  like  some  byeway  in 
Whitechapel — or — I look  again— like  Wych  Street, 
down  by  the  little  barber’s  shop  on  the  same  side  of  the 
way  as  Holywell  Street — or — I look  again — as  like  Holy- 
well  Street  itself— as  ever  street  was  like  to  street,  or 
ever  will  be,  in  this  world.” 


TRAVEL.  169 


not  give  ! I feel  cruel  not  to  have  brought 
Kate  and  Georgy ; positively  cruel  and  base. 
Canaletti  and  Stanny,  miraculous  in  their  truth. 
Turner,  very  noble.  But  the  reality  itself,  be- 
yond all  pen  or  pencil.  I never  saw  the  thing 
before  that  I should  be  afraid  to  describe.  But 
to  tell  what  Venice  is,  I feel  to  be  an  impossi- 
bility. And  here  I sit  alone,  writing  it : with 
nothing  to  urge  me  on,  or  goad  me  to  that  esti- 
mate, which,  speaking  of  it  to  anyone  I loved, 
and  being  spoken  to  in  return,  would  lead  me 
to  form.  In  the  sober  solitude  of  a famous  inn  ; 
with  the  great  bell  of  Saint  Mark  ringing  twelve 
at  my  elbow ; with  three  arched  windows  in  my 
room  (two  stories  high)  looking  down  upon  the 
grand  canal  and  away,  beyond,  to  where  the 
sun  went  down  to-night  in  a blaze ; and  think- 
ing over  again  those  silent  speaking  faces  of 
Titian  and  Tintoretto ; I swear  (uncooled  by 
any  humbug  I have  seen)  that  Venice  is  ihe 
wonder  and  the  new  sensation  of  the  world  ! If 
you  could  be  set  down  in  it,  never  having  heard 
of  it,  it  would  still  be  so.  With  your  foot  upon 
its  stones,  its  pictures  before  you,  and  its  history 
in  your  mind,  it  is  something  past  all  writing  of 
or  speaking  of — almost  past  all  thinking  of. 
You  couldn’t  talk  to  me  in  this  room,  nor  I to 
you,  without  shaking  hands  and  saying  ‘ Good 
God  my  dear  fellow,  have  we  lived  to  see 
this  ! ’ ” 

Five  days  later,  Sunday  the  17th,  he  was  at 
Lodi,  from  which  he  wrote  to  me  that  he  had 
been,  like  Leigh  Hunt’s  pig,  up  “ all  manner  of 
streets  ” since  he  left  his  palazzo  ; that  with  one 
exception  he  had  not  on  any  night  given  up 
more  than  five  hours  to  rest ; that  all  the  days 
except  two  had  been  bad  (‘^  the  last  two  foggy 
as  Blackfriars-bridge  on  Lord  Mayor’s  day  ”) ; 
and  that  the  cold  had  been  dismal.  But  what 
cheerful,  keen,  observant  eyes  he  carried  every- 
where ; and,  in  the  midst  of  new  and  unaccus- 
tomed scenes,  and  of  objects  and  remains  of  art 
for  which  no  previous  study  had  prepared  him, 
with  what  a delicate  play  of  imagination  and 
fancy  the  accuracy  of  his  ordinary  vision  was 
exalted  and  refined ; I think  strikingly  shown 
by  the  few  unstudied  passages  I am  preserving 
from  these  friendly  letters.  He  saw  everything 
for  himself ; and  from  mistakes  in  judging  for 
himself  which  not  all  the  learning  and  study  in 
the  world  will  save  common  men,  the  intuition 
of  genius  almost  always  saved  him.  Hence 
there  is  hardly  anything  uttered  by  him,  of  this 
much-trodden  and  wearisomely  visited,  but 
eternally  beautiful  and  interesting  country,  that 
will  not  be  found  worth  listening  to. 

“ I am  already  brim-full  of  cant  about  pic- 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


1 70 


tures,  and  shall  be  happy  to  enlighten  you  on 
the  subject  of  the  different  schools,  at  any 
length  you  please.  It  seems  to  me  that  the 
preposterous  exaggeration  in  which  our  country- 
men delight  in  reference  to  this  Italy,  hardly 
extends  to  the  really  good  things.'^'  Perhaps  it 
is  in  its  nature,  that  there  it  should  fall  short. 
I have  never  yet  seen  any  praise  of  Titian’s 
great  picture  of  the  Assumption  of  the  Virgin 
at  Venice,  which  soared  half  as  high  as  the 
beautiful  and  amazing  reality.  It  is  perfection. 
Tintoretto’s  picture  too,  of  the  Assembly  of  the 
Blest,  at  Venice  also,  with  all  the  lines  in  it  (it 
is  of  immense  size  and  the  figures  are  countless) 
tending  majestically  and  dutifully  to  Almighty 
God  in  the  centre,  is  grand  and  noble  in  the 

* Four  months  later,  after  he  had  seen  the  galleiit„  at 
Rome  and  the  other  great  cities,  he  sent  me  a remark 
which  has  since  had  eloquent  reinforcement  from  critics 
of  undeniable  authority.  “The  most  famous  of  the  oil 
paintings  in  the  Vatican  you  know  through  the  medium 
of  the  finest  line-engravings  in  the  world  ; and  as  to 
some  of  them  I must  doubt,  if  you  had  seen  them  with 
me,  whether  you  might  not  think  you  had  lost  little  in 
having  only  known  them  hitherto  in  that  translation. 
Where  the  drawing  is  poor  and  meagre,  or  alloyed  by 
time, — it  is  so,  and  it  must  be,  often  ; though  no  doubt 
it  is  a heresy  to  hint  at  such  a thing, — the  engraving  pre- 
sents the  forms  and  the  idea  to  you,  in  a simple  majesty 
which  such  defects  impair.  Where  this  is  not  the  case, 
and  all  is  stately  and  harmonious,  still  it  is  somehow  in 
the  very  grain  and  nature  of  a delicate  engraving  to  sug- 
gest to  you  (I  think)  the  utmost  delicacy,  finish,  and  re- 
finement, as  belonging  to  the  original.  Therefore,  though 
the  Picture  in  this  latter  case  will  greatly  charm  and  in- 
terest you,  it  does  not  take  you  by  surprise.  You  are 
quite  prepared  beforehand  for  the  fullest  excellence  of 
which  it  is  capable.”  In  the  same  letter  he  wrote  of 
what  remained  alwa}-s  a delight  in  his  memory,  the 
charm  of  the  more  private  collections.  He  found  mag- 
nificent portraits  and  paintings  in  the  private  palaces, 
where  he  thought  them  seen  to  greater  advantage  than 
j in  galleries  ; because  in  numbers  not  so  large  as  to  dis- 
tract attention  or  confuse  the  eye.  “ There  are  portraits 
I innumerable  by  Titian,  Rubens,  Rembrandt,  and  Van- 
1 dyke ; heads  by  Guido,  and  Domenichino,  and  Carlo 
j I)olci ; subjects  by  Raphael,  and  Correggio,  and  Mu- 
I rillo,  and  Paul  Veronese,  and  Salvator  ; which  it  would 
I be  difficult  indeed  to  praise  too  highly,  or  to  praise 
enough.  It  is  a happiness  to  me  to  think  that  they  can- 
not be  felt,  as  they  should  be  felt,  by  the  profound  con- 
! noisseurs  who  fall  into  fits  upon  the  longest  notice  and 
the  most  unreasonable  terms.  Such  tenderness  and 
grace,  such  noble  elevation,  purity,  and  be.auty  so  shine 
upon  me  from  some  well-remembered  spots  in  the  walls 
ot  these  galleries,  as  to  relieve  my  tortured  mcmoiy  from 
legions  of  whining  fiiars  and  waxy  holy  familie-.  I for- 
give, from  the  bortom  of  my  soul,  whole  orchestras  of 
earthy  angels,  and  whole  groves  of  .St.  Sebastians  stuck 
as  full  of  an-ows  according  to  pattern  as  a lying-in  pin- 
cushion is  stuck  with  pins.  And  1 am  in  no  humour  to 
quarrel  even  with  that  priestly  infatuation,  or  iiriestly 
(loggedness  of  purpose,  which  ])crsists  in  reducing  every 
mystery  of  our  religion  to  some  literal  development  in 
jiaint  and  canvas,  equally  repugnant  to  the  reason  and 
the  sentiment  of  any  thinking  man.” 


extreme.  There  are  some  wonderful  portraits 
there,  besides ; and  some  confused,  and  hurried, 
and  slaughterous  battle  pieces,  in  which  the 
surprising  art  that  presents  the  generals  to  your 
eye,  so  that  it  is  almost  impossible  you  can  miss 
them  in  a crowd  though  they  are  in  the  thick  of 
it,  is  very  pleasant  to  dwell  upon.  I have  seen 
some  delightful  pictures;  and  some  (at  Verona 
and  Mantua)  really  too  absurd  and  ridiculous 
even  to  laugh  at.  Hampton-court  is  a fool  to 
’em — and  oh  there  are  some  rum  ’uns  there, 
my  friend.  Some  werry  rum  ’uns.  ; . . . Two 
things  are  clear  to  me  already.  One  is,  that 
the  rules  of  art  are  much  too  slavishly  followed ; 
making  it  a pain  to  you,  when  you  go  into 
galleries  day  after  day,  to  be  so  very  precisely 
sure  where  this  figure  will  be  turning  round,  and 
that  figure  will  be  lying  down,  and  that  other 
will  have  a great  lot  of  drapery  twined  about 
him,  and  so  forth.  This  becomes  a perfect 
nightmare.  The  second  is,  that  these  great 
men,  who  were  of  necessity  very  much  in  the 
hands  of  the  monks  and  priests,  painted  monks 
and  priests  a vast  deal  too  often.  I constantly 
see,  in  pictures  of  tremendous  power,  heads 
quite  below  the  etory  and  the  painter;  and  I 
invariably  observe  that  those  heads  are  of  the 
convent  stamp,  and  have  their  counterparts, 
exactly,  in  the  convent  inmates  of  this  hour.  I 
see  the  portraits  of  monks  I know  at  Genoa,  in 
all  the  lame  parts  of  strong  paintings : so  I 
have  settled  with  myself  that  in  such  cases  the 
lameness  was  not  witli  the  painter,  ljut  with 
the  vanity  and  ignorance  of  his  employers,  who 
would  ht  apostles  on  canvas  at  all  events.” 

In  the  same  letter  he  described  the  Inns. 
“ It  is  a great  thing — quite  a matter  of  course — 
with  English  travellers,  to  decry  the  Italian  inns. 
Of  course  you  have  no  comforts  that  you  arc 
used  to  in  England ; and  travelling  alone,  you 
dine  in  your  bedroom  always  : which  is  opposed 
to  our  habits.  But  they  are  immeasurably 
better  than  you  would  suppose.  The  attend- 
ants arc  very  quick  ; very  punctual ; and  so 
obliging,  if  you  speak  to  them  ])olitely,  that  you 
would  be  a beast  not  to  look  cheerful,  and  take 
everything  pleasantly.  I am  writing  this  in  a 
room  like  a room  on  the  two-pair  front  of  an 
unfinished  house  in  Eaton-square ; the  very 
walls  make  me  feel  as  if  I were  a bricklayer 
distinguished  by  Mr.  Cubitt  with  the  fa\'Our  of 
having  it  to  take  care  of.  The  windows  won’t 
open,  and  the  doors  won’t  shut ; and  these 
latter  (a  cat  could  get  in,  between  them  and  the 
floor)  have  a windy  command  of  a colonnade 
which  is  open  to  the  night,  so  that  my  slippers 
positively  blow  off  my  feet,  and  make  little 


ITALIAN  TRAVEL.  17 1 


circuits  in  the  room — like  leaves.  There  is  a 
very  ashy  wood-fire,  burning  on  an  immense 
hearth  which  has  no  fender  (there  is  no  such 
thing  in  Italy) ; and  it  only  knows  two  extremes 
— an  agony  of  heat  when  wood  is  put  on,  and 
I an  agony  of  cold  when  it  has  been  on  two 
I minutes.  There  is  also  an  uncomfortable  stain 
I in  the  wall,  where  the  fifth  door  (not  being 
' strictly  indispensable)  was  walled  up  a year  or 
I two  ago,  and  never  painted  over.  But  the  bed 
is  clean ; and  I have  had  an  excellent  dinner ; 
and  without  being  obsequious  or  servile,  which 
is  not  at  all  the  characteristic  of  the  people  in 
j the  North  of  Italy,  the  waiters  are  so  amiably 
I disposed  to  invent  little  attentions  which  they 
j suppose  to  be  English,  and  are  so  lighthearted 
! and  goodnatured,  that  it  is  a pleasure  to  have 
I to  do  with  them.  But  so  it  is  with  all  the 
1 people.  Vetturino-travelling  involves  a stop- 
' page  of  two  hours  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  to 
' bait  the  horses.  At  that  time  I always  walk  on. 

' If  there  are  many  turns  in  the  road,  I neces- 
sarily have  to  ask  my  way,  very  often ; and  the 
men  are  such  gentlemen,  and  the  women  such 
ladies,  that  it  is  quite  an  interchange  of  cour- 
tesies.” 

! Of  the  help  his  courier  continued  to  be  to 
I him  I had  whimsical  instances  in  almost  every 
j letter,  but  he  appears  too  often  in  the  published 
I book  to  require  such  celebration  here.  He  is 
1 however  an  essential  figure  to  two  little  scenes 
j sketched  for  me  at  Lodi,  and  I may  preface 
them  by  saying  that  Louis  Roche,  a native  of 
Avignon,  justified  to  the  close  his  master’s  high 
opinion.  He  was  again  engaged  for  nearly  a 
year  in  Switzerland,  and  soon  after,  poor  fellow, 
though  with  a jovial  robustness  of  look  and 
breadth  of  chest  that  promised  unusual  length  of 
days,  was  killed  by  heart-disease.  “The  brave 
C continues  to  be  a prodigy.  He  puts  out  my 
clothes  at  every  inn  as  if  I were  going  to  stay 
j there  twelve  months;  calls  me  to  the  instant 
every  morning  ; lights  the  fire  before  I get  up  ; 

, gets  hold  of  roast  fowls  and  produces  them  in 
coaches  at  a distance  from  all  other  help,  in 
, hungry  moments  ; and  is  invaluable  to  me.  He 
I is  such  a good  fellow,  too,  that  little  rewards 
' don’t  spoil  him.  I always  give  him,  after  I have 
' dined,  a tumbler  of  Sauterne  or  Hermitage  or 
whatever  I may  have  ; sometimes  (as  yesterday) 
when  we  have  come  to  a public-house  at  about 
eleven  o’clock,  very  cold,  having  started  before 
day-break  and  had  nothing,  I make  him  take  his 
breakfast  with  me ; and  this  renders  him  only 
more  anxious  than  ever,  by  redoubling  atten- 
tions, to  show  me  that  he  thinks  he  has  got  a good 
master I didn’t  tell  you  that  the  day  be- 


fore I left  Genoa,  we  had  a dinner-party — our 
English  consul  and  his  wife;  the  banker;  Sir 
George  Crawford  and  his  wife  ; the  De  la  Rues  ; 
Mr.  Curry ; and  some  others,  fourteen  in  all.  At 
about  nine  in  the  morning,  two  men  in  immense 
paper  caps  enquired  at  the  door  for  the  brave  C, 
who  presently  introduced  them  in  triumph  as  the 
Governor’s  cooks,  his  private  friends,  who  had 
come  to  dress  the  dinner ! Jane  wouldn’t  stand 
this,  however ; so  we  were  obliged  to  decline. 
Then  there  came,  at  half-hourly  intervals,  six 
gentlemen  having  the  appearance  of  English 
clergymen,  being  other  private  friends  who  had 
come  to  wait We  accepted  their  ser- 

vices ; and  you  never  saw  anything  so  nicely  and 
quietly  done.  He  had  asked,  as  a special  dis- 
tinction, to  be  allowed  the  supreme  control  of 
the  dessert;  and  he  had  ices  made  like  fruit,  had 
pieces  of  crockery  turned  upside  down  so  as  to 
look  like  other  pieces  of  crockery  non-existent 
in  this  part  of  Europe,  and  carried  a case  of 
tooth-picks  in  his  pocket.  Then  his  delight  was, 
to  get  behind  Kate  at  one  end  of  the  table  to 
look  at  me  at  the  other,  and  to  say  to  Georgy  in 
a low  voice  whenever  he  handed  her  anything, 
‘ What  does  master  think  of  datter  ’rangement  ? 
Is  he  content  ?’....  If  you  could  see  what 
these  fellows  of  couriers  are  when  their  families 
are  not  upon  the  move,  you  would  feel  what  a 
prize  he  is.  I can’t  make  out  whether  he  was  ever 
a smuggler,  but  nothing  will  induce  him  to  give 
the  custom-house  officers  anything : in  conse- 
quence of  which  that  portmanteau  of  mine  has 
been  unnecessarily  opened  twenty  times.  Two 
of  them  will  come  to  the  coach-door,  at  the  gate 
of  a town.  ‘ Is  there  anything  contraband  in 
this  carriage,  signore?’ — ‘No,  no.  There’s 
nothing  here.  I am  an  Englishman,  and  this  is 
my  servant.’  ‘A  buono  mano  signore?’ 
‘ Roche,’  (in  English)  ‘ give  him  something,  and 
get  rid  of  him.’  He  sits  unmoved.  ‘ A buono 
mano  signore?’  ‘Go  along  with  you!’  says 
the  brave  C.  ‘ Signore,  I am  a custom-house- 
officer  ! ’ ‘ Well,  then,  more  shame  for  you  !’ — 

he  always  makes  the  same  answer.  And  then 
he  turns  to  me  and  says  in  English  : wliile  the 
custom-house-officer’s  face  is  a portrait  of  anguish 
framed  in  the  coach-window,  from  his  intense 
desire  to  know  what  is  being  told  to  his  dispa- 
ragement : ‘ Datter  chip,’  shaking  his  fist  at  him, 

‘ is  greatest  tief — and  you  know  it  you  rascal — 
as  never  did  en-razh  me  so,  that  I cannot  bear 
myself ! ’ I suppose  chip  to  mean  chap,  but  it 
may  include  the  custom-house-officer’s  father 
and  have  some  reference  to  the  old  block,  for 
anything  I distinctly  know.” 

He  closed  his  Lodi  letter  next  day  at  Milan, 


> 

172  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

whither  his  wife  and  her  sister  had  made  an 

intercession  of  our  friend  Thomas  Ingoldsby 

eighty  miles  journey  from  Genoa,  to  pass  a 

(Mr.  Barham),  there  was  a second  reading  to 

couple  of  days  with  him  in  Prospero’s  old  Duke- 

which  the  presence  and  enjoyment  of  Fonblanque 

dom  before  he  left  for  London.  “ We  shall  go 

gave  new  zest ; and  when  I expressed  to  Dickens, 

our  several  ways  on  Thursday  morning,  and  I 

after  he  left  us,  my  grief  that  he  had  had  so  tern- 

am  still  bent  on  appearing  at  Cuttris’s  on  Sun- 

pestuous  a journey  for  such  brief  enjoyment,  he 

day  the  first,  as  if  I had  walked  thither  from 

replied  that  the  visit  had  been  one  happiness 

Devonshire-terrace.  In  the  meantime  I shall 

and  delight  to  him.  “ I would  not  recall  an 

not  write  to  you  again  ....  to  enhance  the 

inch  of  the  way  to  or  from  you,  if  it  had  been 

pleasure  (if  anything  can  enhance  the  pleasure) 

twenty  times  as  long  and  twenty  thousand  times 

of  our  meeting  ....  I am  opening  my  arms 

as  wintry.  It  was  worth  any  travel — anything  ! 

so  wide  ! ” One  more  letter  I had  nevertheless  ; 

With  the  soil  of  the  road  in  the  very  grain  of  my 

written  at  Strasburg  on  Monday  night  the  25th  ; 

cheeks,  I swear  I wouldn’t  have  missed  that 

to  tell  me  that  I might  look  for  him  one  day 

week,  that  first  night  of  our  meeting,  that  one 

earlier,  so  rapid  had  been  his  progress.  He  had 

evening  of  the  reading  at  your  rooms,  aye,  and 

been  in  bed  only  once,  at  Friburg  for  two  or 

the  second  reading  too,  for  any  easily  stated  or 

three  hours,  since  he  left  Milan ; and  he  had 

conceived  consideration.” 

sledged  through  the  snow  on  the  top  of  the 

He  wrote  from  Paris,  at  which  he  had  stopped 

Simplon  in  the  midst  of  prodigious  cold.  “ I 

on  his  way  back  to  see  Macready,  whom  an  en- 

am  sitting  here  in  a wood  fire,  and  drinking 

gagement  to  act  there  with  Mr.  Mitchell’s  Eng- 

brandy  and  water  scalding  hot,  with  a faint  idea 

lish  company  had  prevented  from  joining  us  in 

of  coming  warm  in  time.  My  face  is  at  present 

Lincoln’s-inn-fields.  There  had  been  no  such 

tingling  with  the  frost  and  wind,  as  I suppose 

frost  and  snow  since  1829,  and  he  gave  dismal 

the  cymbals  may,  when  that  turbaned  lurk  at- 

report  of  the  city.  With  Macready  he  had  gone 

tached  to  the  life  guards’  band  has  been  newly 

two  nights  before  to  the  Odeon  to  see  Alexander 

clashing  at  them  in  St.  James’s-park.  I am  in 

Dumas’  played  by  Madame  St.  George, 

hopes  it  may  be  the  preliminary  agony  of  re- 

“ once  Napoleon’s  mistress  ; now  of  an  immense 

turning  animation.” 

size,  from  dropsy  I suppose ; and  with  little 

There  was  certainly  no  want  of  animation 

weak  legs  which  she  can’t  stand  upon.  Her 

when  we  met.  I have  but  to  write  the  words  to 

age,  withal,  somewhere  about  80  or  90.  I never 

bring  back  the  eager  face  and  figure,  as  they 

in  my  life  beheld  such  a sight.  Every  stage 

flashed  upon  me  so  suddenly  this  wintry  Satur- 

conventionality  she  ever  picked  up  (and  she 

day  night  that  almost  before  I could  be  conscious 

has  them  all)  has  got  the  dropsy  too,  and  is 

of  his  presence  I felt  the  grasp  of  his  hand.  It 

swollen  and  bloated  hideously.  The  other 

is  almost  all  I find  it  possible  to  remember  of 

actors  never  looked  at  one  another,  but  de- 

the  brief,  bright  meeting.  Hardly  did  he  seem 

livered  all  their  dialogues  to  the  pit,  in  a manner 

lo  have  come  when  he  was  gone.  But  all  that 

so  egregiously  unnatural  and  preposterous  that 

s^he  visit  proposed  he  accomplished.  He  saw 

I couldn’t  make  up  my  mind  whether  to  take  it 

his  little  book  in  its  final  form  for  publication  ; 

as  a joke  or  an  outrage.”  And  then  came  allu- 

and,  to  a select  few  brought  together  on  Monday 

sion  to  a project  we  had  started  on  the  night  of 

the  2nd  of  December  at  my  house,  had  the  oppor- 

the  reading,  that  a private  play  should  be  got 

1 

tunity  of  reading  it  aloud.  An  occasion  rather 

up  by  us  on  his  return  from  Italy.  “ You  and  I, 

memorable,  in  which  was  the  germ  of  those 

sir,  will  reform  this  altogether.”  He  had  but  to 

readings  to  larger  audiences  by  which,  as  much 

wait  another  night,  however,  when  he  saw  it  all 

as  by  his  books,  the  world  knew  him  in  his  later 

reformed  at  the  Italian  opera  where  Grisi  was 

life  ; but  of  which  no  detail  beyond  the  fact  re- 

singing  in  II  Firato,  and  “ the  passion  and  fire 

mains  in  mv  memory,  and  all  are  now  dead  who 

of  a scene  between  her,  Mario,  and  Fornasaii, 

were  present  at  it  excepting  only  Mr.  Carlyle 

was  as  good  and  great  as  it  is  possible  for  any- 

and  myself.  Among  those  however  who  have 

thing  operatic  to  be.  They  drew  on  one  another. 

thus  passed  away  was  one,  our  excellent  Maclise, 

the  two  men — not  like  stage-players,  but  like 

who,  anticipating  the  advice  of  Captain  Cuttle, 

Macready  himself : and  she,  rushing  in  between 

had  “made  a note  of  it”  in  pencil,  which  has 

them,  now  clinging  to  this  one,  now  lo  that. 

been  reproduced.  All  other  recollection  of  it  is 

now  making  a sheath  for  their  naked  swords 

passed  and  gone  ; but  that  at  least  its  principal 

with  her  arms,  now  tearing  her  hair  in  distrac- 

actor  was  made  glad  and  grateful,  sufficient 

tion  as  they  broke  away  from  her  and  ]flunged 

farther  testimony  survives.  Such  was  the  report 

again  at  each  other ; was  prodigious.”  This  was 

made  of  it,  that  once  more,  on  the  pressing 

the  theatre  at  which  Macready  was  immediately 

fJLi 


I 


Vft' 


***  ■ 

•J 


[‘*4.1 


u. 


T4 


LAST  MONTHS  IN  ITALY. 


173 


to  act,  and  where  Dickens  saw  him  next  day 
rehearse  the  scene  before  the  doge  and  council 
in  Othello,  “ not  as  usual  facing  the  float  but 
arranged  on  one  side,”  with  an  effect  that  seemed 
to  him  to  heighten  the  reality  of  the  scene. 

He  left  Paris  on  the  night  of  the  13th  with 
the  malle  poste,  which  did  not  reach  Marseilles 
till  fifteen  hours  behind  its  time,  after  three  days 
and  three  nights  travelling  over  horrible  roads. 
Then,  in  a confusion  between  the  two  rival 
packets  for  Genoa,  he  unwillingly  detained  one 
of  them  more  than  an  hour  from  sailing  ; and 
only  managed  at  last  to  get  to  her  just  as  she 
was  moving  out  of  harbour.  As  he  went  up  the 
side,  he  saw  a strange  sensation  among  the 
angry  travellers  whom  he  had  detained  so  long ; 
heard  a voice  exclaim  “ I’m  blarmed  if  it  ain’t 
Dickens  ! ” and  stood  in  the  centre  of  a group 
of  Five  Americans  1 But  the  pleasantest  part  of 
the  story  is  that  they  were,  one  and  all,  glad  to 
see  him  ; that  their  chief  man,  or  leader,  who 
had  met  him  in  New  York,  at  once  introduced 
them  all  round  with  the  remark,  “ Personally 
our  countrymen,  and  you,  can  fix  it  friendly  sir, 
I do  expectuate:”  and  that,  through  the  stormy 
passage  to  Genoa  which  followed,  they  were  ex- 
cellent friends.  For  the  greater  part  of  the 
time,  it  is  true,  Dickens  had  to  keep  to  his 
cabin  ; but  he  contrived  to  get  enjoyment  out 
of  them  nevertheless.  The  member  of  the  party 
who  had  the  travelling  dictionary  wouldn’t 
part  with  it,  though  he  was  dead  sick  in  the 
cabin  next  to  my  friend’s ; and  every  now  and 
then  Dickens  was  conscious  of  his  fellow-travel- 
lers coming  down  to  him,  crying  out  in  varied 
tones  of  anxious  bewilderment,  “ I say,  what’s 
French  for  a pillow?”  “Is  there  any  Italian 
phrase  for  a lump  of  sugar?  Just  look,  will 
you?”  “What  the  devil  does  echo  mean? 
The  garsong  says  echo  to  everything  ! ” They 
were  excessively  curious  to  know,  too,  the  popu- 
lation of  every  little  town  on  the  Cornice,  and 
all  its  statistics  ; “ perhaps  the  very  last  subjects 
within  the  capacity  of  the  human  intellect,”  re- 
marks Dickens,  “ that  would  ever  present  them- 
selves to  an  Italian  steward’s  mind.  He  was  a 
very  willing  fellow,  our  steward ; and,  having 
some  vague  idea  that  they  would  like  a large 
number,  said  at  hazard  fifty  thousand,  ninety 
thousand,  four  hundred  thousand,  when  they 
asked  about  the  population  of  a place  not  larger 
than  Lincoln’s-inn-fields.  And  when  they  said, 
No71  Possible  I (which  was  the  leader’s  invariable 
reply),  he  doubled  or  trebled  the  amount ; to 
meet  what  he  supposed  to  be  their  views,  and 
make  it  quite  satisfactory.” 


VII. 

LAST  MONTHS  IN  ITALY. 

1845. 

N the  22nd  of  December  he  had 
resumed  his  ordinary  Genoa  life ; 
and  of  a letter  from  Jeffrey,  to  whom 
he  had  dedicated  his  little  book,  he 
wrote  as  “most  energetic  and  en- 
thusiastic. Filer  sticks  in  his  throat 
rather,  but  all  the  rest  is  quivering  in  his 
heart.  He  is  very  much  struck  by  the 
management  of  Lilian’s  story,  and  cannot  help 
speaking  of  that;  writing  of  it  all  indeed  with 
the  freshness  and  ardour  of  youth,  and  not  like 
a man  whose  blue  and  yellow  has  turned  grey.” 
Some  of  its  words  have  been  already  given. 
“ Miss  Coutts  has  sent  Charley,  with  the  best  of 
letters  to  me,  a Twelfth  Cake  weighing  ninety 
pounds,  magnificently  decorated ; and  only 
think  of  the  characters,  Fairburn’s  Twelfth  Night 
characters,  being  detained  at  the  custom-house 
for  Jesuitical  surveillance ! But  these  fellows 

are Well!  nevermind.  Perhaps  you  have 

seen  the  history  of  the  Dutch  minister  at  Turin, 
and  of  the  spiriting  away  of  his  daughter  by  the 
Jesuits?  It  is  all  true  ; though,  like  the  history 
of  our  friend’s  servant,*  almost  incredible.  But 
their  devilry  is  such  that  I am  assured  by  our 
consul  that  if,  while  we  are  in  the  south,  we 
were  to  let  our  children  go  out  with  servants  on 
whom  we  could  not  implicitly  rely,  these  holy 
men  would  trot  even  their  small  feet  into 
churches  with  a view  to  their  ultimate  conver- 
sion ! It  is  tremendous  even  to  see  them  in  the 
streets,  or  slinking  about  this  garden.”  Of  his 
purpose  to  start  for  the  south  of  Italy  in  the 
middle  of  January,  taking  his  wife  with  him,  his 
letter  the  following  week  told  me ; dwelling  on 
all  he  had  missed,  in  that  first  Italian  Christmas, 
of  our  old  enjoyments  of  the  season  in  England  ; 
and  closing  its  pleasant  talk  with  a postscript  at 
midnight.  “First  of  January,  1845.  Many 
many  many  happy  returns  of  the  day  ! A life 
of  happy  years  1 The  Baby  is  dressed  in  thun- 
der, lightning,  rain,  and  wind.  His  birth  is 
most  portentous  here.” 

* In  a previous  letter  he  had  told  me  that  histoiy. 
“ Apropos  of  servants,  I must  tell  you  of  a child-bearing 
handmaiden  of  some  friends  of  ours,  a thorough  out  and 
outer,  who,  by  way  of  expiating  her  sins,  caused  herself, 
the  other  day,  to  be  received  into  the  bosom  of  the  infal- 
lible church.  She  had  two  marchionesses  for  her  spon- 
sors ; and  she  is  heralded  in  the  Genoa  newspapers  as 

Miss  B , an  English  lady,  who  has  repented  of  her 

errors  and  saved  her  soul  alive.” 





THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


It  was  of  ill-omen  to  me,  one  of  its  earliest 
incidents  being  my  only  brother’s  death ; but 
Dickens  had  a friend’s  true  helpfulness  in  sor- 
row, and  a portion  of  what  he  then  wrote  to  me 
I permit  myself  to  preserve  in  a note*  for  what 
it  relates  of  his  own  sad  experiences  and  solemn 
beliefs  and  hopes.  The  journey  southward  began 
on  the  2oth  of  January,  and  five  days  later  I had 
a letter  written  from  La  Scala,  at  a little  inn, 
“supported  on  low  brick  arches  like  a British  hay- 
stack,” the  bed  in  their  room  “ like  a mangle,” 
the  ceiling  without  lath  or  plaster,  nothing  to 
speak  of  available  for  comfort  or  decency,  and 
nothing  particular  to  eat  or  drink.  “ But  for  all 
this  I have  become  attached  to  the  country  and 
I don’t  care  who  knows  it.”  They  had  left 
Pisa  that  morning  and  Carrara  the  day  before  : 
at  the  latter  place  an  ovation  awaiting  him,  the 
result  of  the  zeal  of  our  eccentric  friend  Fletcher, 
who  happened  to  be  staying  there  with  an  Eng- 
lish marble-merchant.  “ There  is  a beautiful 
little  theatre  there,  built  of  marble ; and  they 
had  it  illuminated  that  night,  in  my  honour. 
There  was  really  a very  fair  opera  : but  it  is 
curious  that  the  chorus  has  been  always,  time 
out  of  mind,  made  up  of  labourers  in  the  quar- 
ries, who  don’t  know  a note  of  music,  and  sing 
entirely  by  ear.  It  was  crammed  to  excess,  and 
I had  a great  reception ; a deputation  waiting 
upon  us  in  the  box,  and  the  orchestra  turning 
out  in  a body  afterwards  and  serenading  us  at 
Mr.  Walton’s.”  Between  this  and  Rome  they 

* “ I feel  the  distance  between  us  now,  indeed.  I 
would  to  Heaven,  my  dearest  friend,  that  1 could  remind 
you  in  a manner  more  lively  and  affectionate  than  this 
dull  sheet  of  paper  can  put  on,  that  you  have  a Brother 
left.  One  bound  to  you  by  ties  as  strong  as  ever  Nature 
forged.  By  ties  never  to  be  broken,  weakened,  changed 
in  any  way — but  to  be  knotted  tighter  up,  if  that  be  pos- 
sible, until  the  same  end  comes  to  them  as  has  come  to 
these.  That  end  but  the  bright  beginning  of  a happier 
union,  I believe  ; and  have  never  more  strongly  and  reli- 
giously believed  (and  oh  ! Forster,  with  what  a sore  heart 
I have  thanked  God  for  it)  tlian  when  that  shadow  has' 
fallen  on  my  own  hearth,  and  made  it  cold  and  dark  as 
suddenly  as  in  the  home  of  that  poor  girl  you  tell  me  of. 
....  'When  you  write  to  me  again,  the  pain  of  this  will 
have  passed.  No  consolation  can  be  so  certain  and  so 
lasting  to  you  as  that  softened  and  manly  sorrow  which 
springs  up  from  the  memory  of  the  Dead.  1 read  your 
heart  as  easily  as  if  I held  it  in  my  hand,  this  moment. 
And  I know — I know,  my  dear  friend — that  before  the 
ground  is  green  above  him,  you  will  be  content  that  what 

was  capable  of  death  in  him,  should  lie  there I 

am  glad  to  think  it  was  so  easy,  and  full  of  peace.  What 
can  we  hope  for  more,  when  our  own  time  comes  ! — The 
day  when  he  visited  us  in  our  old  house  is  as  fresh  to  nrc 
as  if  it  had  been  yesterday.  I remember  him  as  well  as 

I remember  you I have  many  things  to  say,  but 

cannot  say  them  now.  Your  attached  and  loving  Iriend 
for  life,  and  far,  I hope,  beyond  it.  C.  D.”  (8th  of 
January,  1845.) 


had  a somewhat  wild  journey  ; and  before  Radi- 
cofani  was  reached,  there  were  disturbing  rumours 
of  bandits  and  even  uncomfortable  whispers  as 
to  their  night’s  lodging-place.  “ I really  began 
to  think  we  might  have  an  adventure ; and  as  I 
had  brought  (like  an  ass)  a bag  of  napoleons 
with  me  from  Genoa,  I called  up  all  the  theatri- 
cal ways  of  letting  off  pistols  that  I could  call  to 
mind,  and  was  the  more  disposed  to  fire  them 
through  not  having  any.”  It  ended  in  no  worse 
adventure,  however,  than  a somewhat  exciting 
dialogue  with  an  old  professional  beggar  at 
Radicofani  itself,  in  which  he  was  obliged  to 
confess  that  he  came  off  second-best.  It  trans- 
pired at  a little  town  hanging  on  a hill-side,  of 
which  the  inhabitants,  being  all  of  them  beggars, 
had  the  habit  of  swooping  down,  like  so  many 
birds  of  prey,  upon  any  carriage  that  approached 
it. 

“ Can  you  imagine  ” (he  named  a first-rate 
bore,  for  whose  name  I shall  substitute)  “ M.  F.  G. 
in  a very  frowsy  brown  cloak  concealing  his 
whole  figure,  and  with  very  white  hair  and  a very 
white  beard,  darting  out  of  this  place  with  a long 
staff  in  his  hand,  and  begging  ? There  he  was, 
whether  you  can  or  not ; out  of  breath  with  the 
rapidity  of  his  dive,  and  staying  with  his  staff  all 
the  Radicofani  boys,  that  he  might  fight  it  out 
with  me  alone.  It  was  very  wet,  and  so  was  I ; 
for  I had  kept,  according  to  custom,  my  box- 
seat.  It  was  blowing  so  hard  that  I could 
scarcely  stand ; and  there  was  a custom-house 
on  the  spot,  besides.  Over  and  above  all  this, 

I had  no  small  money ; and  the  brave  C.  never 
has,  when  I want  it  for  a beggar.  When  I had 
excused  myself  several  times,  he  suddenly  drew 
himself  up  and  said,  with  a wizard  look  (fancy 
the  aggravation  of  M.  F.  G.  as  a wizard  !)  ‘ Do 
you  know  what  you  are  doing,  my  lord  ? Do 
you  mean  to  go  on  to-day?’  ‘ Yes,’  I said,  ‘ I 
do.’  ‘ My  lord,’  he  said,’  ‘ do  you  know  that 
your  vetturino  is  unacquainted  with  this  part  of 
the  country ; that  there  is  a wind  raging  on  the 
mountain,  which  will  sweep  you  away  ; that  the 
courier,  the  coach,  and  all  the  passengers,  were 
blown  from  the  road  last  year ; and  that  the 
danger  is  great  and  almost  certain?’  ‘No,’  I 
said,  ‘ I don’t.’  ‘ My  lord,  you  don’t  understand 

me,  I think  ? ’ ‘ Yes,  1 do,  d you  ! ’ nettled 

by  this  (you  feel  it  ? I confess  it).  ‘ Speak  to 
my  servant.  It’s  his  business.  Not  mine  ’ 

— for  he  really  was  too  like  M.  F.  G.  to  be 
borne.  If  you  could  have  seen  him  ! — ‘Santa 
Maria,  tliese  English  lords  ! It’s  not  their  busi-  | 
ness  if  they’re  killed  ! They  leave  it  to  their 
servants  ! ’ He  drew  off  the  boys ; whispered 
them  to  keep  away  from  the  heretic ; and  ran 


LAST  MONTHS  IN  ITALY. 


175 


up  the  hill  again,  almost  as  fast  as  he  had  come 
down.  He  stopped  a little  distance  as  we 
moved  on  ; and  pointing  to  Roche  with  his  long 
staff  cried  loudly  after  me,  “ It’s  his  business  if 
you’re  killed,  is  it,  my  lord  ? Ha  ! ha  ! ha ! 
whose  business  is  it  when  the  English  lords  are 
born!  Ha!  ha!  ha!’  The  boys  taking  it  up 
in  a shrill  yell,  I left  the  joke  and  them  at  this 
])oint.  But  I must  confess  that  I thought  he 
had  the  best  of  it.  And  he  had  so  far  reason 
for  what  he  urged,  that  when  we  got  on  the 
mountain  pass  the  wind  became  terrific,  so  that 
we  were  obliged  to  take  Kate  out  of  the  carriage 
lest  she  should  be  blown  over,  carriage  and  all, 
and  had  ourselves  to  hang  on  to  it,  on  the 
windy  side,  to  prevent  its  going  Heaven  knows 
where ! ” 

The  first  impression  of  Rome  was  disappoint- 
ing. It  was  the  evening  of  the  30th  of  January, 
and  the  cloudy  sky,  dull  cold  rain,  and  muddy 
footways,  he  was  prepared  for ; but  he  was  not 
prepared  for  the  long  streets  of  commonplace 
shops  and  houses  like  Paris  or  any  other  capital, 
the  busy  people,  the  equipages,  the  ordinary 
walkers  up  and  down.  “ It  was  no  more  my 
Rome,  degraded  and  fallen  and  lying  asleep  in 
the  sun  among  a heap  of  ruins,  than  Lincoln’s- 
inn-fields  is.  So  I really  went  to  bed  in  a very 
indifferent  humour.”  That  all  this  yielded  to 
later  and  worthier  impressions  I need  hardly 
say ; and  he  had  never  in  his  life,  he  told  me 
afterwards,  been  so  moved  or  overcome  by  any 
sight  as  by  that  of  the  Coliseum,  “ except  per- 
haps by  the  first  contemplation  of  the  Falls  of 
Niagara.”  He  went  to  Naples  for  the  interval 
before  the  holy  week ; and  his  first  letter  from 
it  was  to  say  that  he  had  found  the  wonderful 
aspects  of  Rome  before  he  left,  and  that  for 
loneliness  and  grandeur  of  ruin  nothing  could 
transcend  the  southern  side  of  the  Campagna. 
But  farther  and  farther  south  the  weather  had 
become  worse ; and  for  a week  before  his  letter 
(the  nth  of  February),  the  only  bright  sky  he 
had  seen  was  just  as  the  sun  was  coming  up 
across  the  sea  at  Terracina.  “ Of  which  place, 
a beautiful  ope,  you  can  get  a very  good  idea 
by  imagining  something  as  totally  unlike  the 
scenery  in  Fra  Diavolo  as  possible.”  He  thought 
the  bay  less  striking  at  Naples  than  at  Genoa, 
the  shape  of  the  latter  being  more  perfect  in 
its  beauty,  and  the  smaller  size  enabling  you  to 
see  it  all  at  once,  and  feel  it  more  like  an 
exquisite  picture.  The  city  he  conceived  the 
greatest  dislike  to.*  “ The  condition  of  the 

* He  makes  no  mention  in  his  book  of  the  pauper 
burial-place  at  Naples,  to  which  the  reference  made  in 
his  letters  is  striking  enough  for  preseiwation.  “In 


common  people  here  is  abject  and  shocking. 

I am  afraid  the  conventional  idea  of  the  pic- 
turesque is  associated  with  such  misery  and 
degradation  that  a new  picturesque  will  have  to 
be  established  as  the  world  goes  onward.  Ex- 
cept Fondi  there  is  nothing  on  earth  that  I have 
seen  so  dirty  as  Naples.  I don’t  know  what  to 
liken  the  streets  to  where  the  mass  of  the 
lazzaroni  live.  You  recollect  that  favourite  pig- 
stye  of  mine  near  Broadstairs  ? They  are  more 
like  streets  of  such  apartments  heaped  up  story 
on  story,  and  tumbled  house  on  house,  than  any- 
thing else  I can  think  of,  at  this  moment.”  In 
a later  letter  he  was  even  less  tolerant.  “ What 
would  I give  that  you  should  see  the  lazzaroni 
as  they  really  are— mere  squalid,  abject,  mise- 
rable animals  for  vermin  to  batten  on ; slouching, 
slinking,  ugly,  shabby,  scavenging  scarecrows ! 
And  oh  the  raffish  counts  and  more  than  doubt- 
ful countesses,  the  noodles  and  the  blacklegs, 
the  good  society  ! And  oh  the  miles  of  miserable 
streets  and  wretched  occupants,  to  which  Saffron- 
hill  or  the  Borough-mint  is  a kind  of  small  gen- 
tility, which  are  found  to  be  so  picturesque  by 
English  lords  and  ladies ; to  whom  the  wretched- 
ness left  behind  at  home  is  lowest  of  the  low, 
and  vilest  of  the  vile,  and  commonest  of  all 
common  things.  Well ! well ! I have  often  j 
thought  that  one  of  the  best  chances  of  immor- 
tality for  a writer  is  in  the  Death  of  his  language, 
when  he  immediately  becomes  good  company : 

Naples,  the  burying  place  of  the  poor  people  is  a great 
paved  yard  with  three  hundred  and  sixty-five  pits  in  it : 
every  one  covered  by  a square  stone  which  is  fastened 
down.  One  of  these  pits  is  opened  every  night  in  the 
year ; the  bodies  of  the  pauper  dead  are  collected  in  the 
city  ; brought  out  in  a cart  (like  that  I told  you  of  at 
Rome) ; and  flung  in  uncoffined.  Some  lime  is  then 
cast  down  into  the  pit ; and  it  is  sealed  up  until  a year  is 
past,  and  its  turn  again  comes  round.  Every  night  there 
is  a pit  opened  ; and  every  night  that  same  pit  is  sealed 
up  again  for  a twelvemonth.  The  cart  has  a red  lamp 
attached,  and  at  about  ten  o’clock  at  night  you  see  it 
glaring  through  the  streets  of  Naples : stopping  at  the 
doors  of  hospitals  and  prisons,  and  such  places,  to  in- 
crease its  freight ; and  then  rattling  off  again.  Attached 
to  the  new  cemetery  (a  very  pretty  one,  and  well-kept : 
immeasurably  better  in  all  respects  than  Pere-la-Chaise) 
there  is  another  similar  yard,  but  not  so  large.”  .... 

In  connection  with  the  same  subject  he  adds : “About 
Naples,  the  dead  are  borne  along  the  street,  uncovered, 
on  an  open  bier  ; which  is  sometimes  hoisted  on  a sort 
of  palanquin,  covered  with  a cloth  of  scarlet  and  gold. 
Tills  exposure  of  the  deceased  is  not  peculiar  to  that  part 
of  Italy ; for  about  midway  between  Rome  and  Genoa 
we  encountered  a funeral  procession  attendant  on  the 
body  of  a woman,  which  was  presented  in  its  usual  dress, 
to  my  eyes  (looking  from  my  elevated  seat  on  the  box  of 
a travelling  carriage)  as  if  she  were  alive,  and  resting  on 
her  bed.  An  attendant  priest  was  chanting  lustily — and 
as  badly  as  the  priests  invariably  do.  Their  noise  is 
horrible ” 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DLCKENS. 


176 


and  I often  think  here, — What  would  you  say  to 
these  people,  milady  and  milord,  if  they  spoke 
out  of  the  homely  dictionary  of  your  own  ‘ lower 
orders.’ " He  was  again  at  Rome  on  Sunday 
the  second  of  March. 


indicate  better  than  by  these  wise  and  tender 
words  from  Dickens.  “ No  philosophy  will  bear 
these  dreadful  things,  or  make  a moment’s  head 
against  them,  but  the  practical  one  of  doing  all 
the  good  we  can,  in  thought  and  deed.  While 
we  can,  God  help  us  ! ourselves  stray  from  our- 


Sad  news  from  me  as  to  a common  and  very 
dear  friend  awaited  him  there ; but  it  is  a sub- 
ject on  which  I may  not  dwell  fa.rther  than  to 
say  that  there  arose  from  it  much  to  redeem 
even  such  a sorrow,  and  that  this  I could  not 


selves  so  easily ; and  there  are  all  around  us 
such  frightful  calamities  besetting  the  world  in 
which  we  live  ; nothing  else  will  carry  us  througli 

it What  a comfort  to  reflect  on  what 

you  tell  me.  Bulwer  Lytton’s  conduct  is  that 
of  a generous  and  noble-minded  man,  as  I have 


THE  RADICOFANI  WIZARD. 


ZAST  JJOJVTZJS  IN  ITAL  V. 


ever  tlioiight  him.  Our  dear  good  Procter  too  ! 
And  Thackeray — how  earnest  they  have  all 
been  ! I am  very  glad  to  find  you  making 
special  mention  of  Charles  Lever.  I am  glad 
over  every  name  you  write.  It  says  some- 
thing for  our  pursuit,  in  the  midst  of  all  its 
miserable  disputes  and  jealousies,  that  the 
common  impulse  of  its  followers,  in  such  an 


instance  as  this,  is  surely  and  certainly  of  the 
noblest.” 

After  the  ceremonies  of  the  holy  week,  of 
which  the  descriptions  sent  to  me  were  repro- 
duced in  his  book,  he  went  to  Florence, which 
lived  always  afterwards  in  his  memory  with 
Venice,  and  with  Genoa.  He  thought  these  the 
three  great  Italian  cities.  “ There  are  some 


NEAPOLITAN 

places  here,! — oh  Heaven  how  fine ! I wish 
you  could  see  the  tower  of  the  palazzo  Vecchio 

* The  reader  will  perhaps  think  with  me  that  what  he 
noticed,  on  the  roads  in  Tuscany  more  than  in  any 
others,  of  wayside  crosses  and  religious  memorials,  may 

be  worth  preserving “ You  know  that  in  the 

streets  and  corners  of  roads,  there  are  all  sorts  of  crosses 
and  similar  memorials  to  be  seen  in  Italy.  The  most 
curious  are,  I think,  in  Tuscany.  There  is  very  seldom 
a figure  on  the  cross,  though  there  is  sometimes  a face ; 
but  they  are  remarkable  for  being  garnished  with  little 
models  in  wood  of  every  possible  object  that  can  be  con- 
nected with  the  Saviour’s  death.  The  cock  that  crowed 
when  Peter  had  denied  his  master  thrice,  is  generally 
perched  on  the  tip-top  ; and  an  ornithological  phenome- 


LAZZARONI. 


as  it  lies  before  me  at  this  moment,  on  the 
opposite  bank  of  the  Arno  ! But  I will  tell  you 

non  he  always  is.  Under  him  is  the  inscription.  Then, 
hung  on  to  the  cross-beam,  are  the  spear,  the  reed  with 
the  sponge  of  vinegar  and  water  at  the  end,  the  coat 
without  seam  for  which  the  soldiers  cast  lots,  the  dice- 
box  with  which  they  threw  for  it,  the  hammer  that  drove 
in  the  nails,  the  pincers  that  pulled  them  out,  the  ladder 
which  was  set  against  the  cross,  the  crown  of  thorns,  the 
instrument  of  flagellation,  the  lantern  with  which  Mary 
went  to  the  tomb — I suppose  ; I can  think  of  no  other — 
and  the  sword  with  which  Peter  smote  the  high  priest’s 
servant.  A perfect  toy-shop  of  little  objects ; repeated 
at  every  four  or  five  miles  all  along  the  highway.” 

t Of  his  visit  to  Fiesole  I have  spoken  in  my  Life  of 


lyS  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DLCISENS. 


more  about  it,  and  about  all  Florence,  from 
my  shady  arm-chair  up  among  the  Peschiere 
i oranges.  I shall  not  be  sorry  to  sit  down  in  it 

again Poor  Hood,  poor  Hood ! I still 

look  for  his  death,  and  he  still  lingers  on.  And 
Sydney  Smith’s  brother  gone  after  poor  dear 
Sydney  himself!  Maltby  will  wither  when  he 
reads  it ; and  poor  old  Rogers  will  contradict 
some  young  man  at  dinner,  every  day  for  three 
weeks.” 

Before  he  left  Florence  (on  the  4th  of  April) 
I heard  of  a “very  pleasant  and  very  merry 
day  ” at  Lord  Holland’s ; and  I ought  to  have 
mentioned  how  much  he  was  gratified  at  Naples, 
by  the  attentions  of  the  English  Minister  there, 
Mr.  Temple,  Lord  Palmerston’s  brother,  whom 
he  described  as  a man  supremely  agreeable, 
with  everything  about  him  in  perfect  taste,  and 
with  that  truest  gentleman-manner  which  has  its 
root  in  kindness  and  generosity  of  nature.  He 
was  back  at  home  in  the  Peschiere  on  Wednes- 
day the  ninth  of  April.  Here  he  continued  to 
write  to  me  every  week,  for  as  long  as  he 
remained,  of  whatever  he  had  seen : with  no 
definite  purpose  as  yet,  but  the  pleasure  of 
interchanging  with  myself  the  impressions  and 
emotions  undergone  by  him.  “ Seriously,”  he 
wrote  to  me  on  the  13th  of  April,  “it  is  a great 
pleasure  to  me  to  find  that  you  are  really 
pleased  with  these  shadows  in  the  water,  and 
think  them  worth  the  looking  at.  Writing  at 
such  odd  places,  and  in  such  odd  seasons,  I 
have  been  half  savage  with  myself,  very  often, 

Landor.  “Ten  years  after  Landor  had  lost  this  home, 
an  Englishman  travelling  in  Italy,  his  friend  and  mine, 
visited  the  neighbourhood  for  his  sake,  drove  out  from 
Florence  to  Fiesole,  and  asked  his  cohchman  which  was 
the  villa  in  which  the  Landor  family  lived.  ‘ He  was  a 
dull  dog,  and  pointed  to  Boccaccio’s.  I didn’t  believe 
him.  He  was  so  deuced  ready  that  I knew  he  lied.  I 
went  up  to  the  convent,  which  is  on  a height,  and  was 
leaning  over  a dwarf  wall  basking  in  the  noble  view  over 
a vast  range  of  hill  and  valley,  when  a little  peasant  girl 
came  up  and  began  to  point  out  the  localities.  Ecco  la 
villa  Landora  ! was  one  of  the  first  half-dozen  sentences 
she  spoke.  My  heart  swelled  as  Landor’s  would  have 
dene  when  I looked  down  upon  it,  nestling  among  its 
olive-trees  and  vines,  and  with  its  upper  windows  (there 
are  five  above  the  door)  open  to  the  setting  sun.  Over 
the  centre  of  these  there  is  another  story,  set  upon  the 
house-top  like  a tower ; and  all  Italy,  e.xcept  its  sea,  is 
melted  down  into  the  glowing  landscape  it  commands. 
I plucked  a leaf  of  ivy  from  the  convent-garden  as  I 
looked;  and  here  it  is.  For  Landor.  With  my  love.’ 
So  wrote  Mr.  Dickens  to  me  from  Florence  on  the  2nd 
of  April  1845  ; and  when  I turned  over  Landor’s  papers 
in  the  same  month  after  an  interval  of  exactly  twenty 
years,  the  ivy  leaf  was  found  carefully  enclosed,  with  the 
letter  in  which  I had  sent  it.’’  Dickens  had  asked  him 
before  leaving  what  he  would  most  wish  to  have  in 
remembrance  of  Italy.  “An  ivy  leaf  from  Fiesole,”  said 
Landor. 


for  not  doing  belter.  But  d’Orsay,  from  whom 
I had  a charming  letter  three  days  since,  seems 
to  think  as  you  do  of  what  he  has  read  in  those 
shown  to  him,  and  says  they  remind  him  vividly 

of  the  real  aspect  of  these  scenes Well, 

if  we  should  determine  after  we  have  sat  in 
council,  that  the  experiences  they  relate  are  to 
be  used,  we  will  call  B.  and  E.  to  their  share 
and  voice  in  the  matter.”  Shortly  before  he 
left,  the  subject  was  again  referred  to  17th  of 
June).  “ I am  in  as  great  doubt  as  you  about 
the  letters  I have  written  you  with  these  Italian 
experiences.  I cannot  for  the  life  of  me  devise 
any  plan  of  using  them  to  my  own  satisfaction, 
and  yet  think  entirely  with  you  that  in  some 
form  I ought  to  use  them.”  Circumstances  not 
in  his  contemplation  at  this  time  settled  the 
form  they  ultimately  took. 

Two  more  months  were  to  finish  his  Italian 
holiday,  and  I do  not  think  he  enjoyed  any 
part  of  it  so  much  as  its  close.  He  had  formed 
a real  friendship  for  Genoa,  was  greatly  attached 
to  the  social  circle  he  had  drawn  round  him 
there,  and  liked  rest  after  his  travel  all  the  more 
for  the  little  excitement  of  living  its  activities 
over  again,  week  by  week,  in  these  letters  to 
me.  And  so,  from  his  “shady  arm-chair  up 
among  the  Peschiere  oranges,”  I had  at  regular 
intervals  what  he  called  his  rambling  talk ; went 
over  with  him  again  all  the  roads  he  had  taken ; 
and  of  the  more  important  scenes  and  cities, 
such  as  Venice,  Rome,  and  Naples,  received 
such  rich  filling-in  to  the  first  outlines  sent,  as 
fairly  justified  the  title  of  Pictures  finally  chosen 
for  them.  The  weather  all  the  time  too  had 
been  without  a Haw.  “Since  our  return,”  he 
wrote  on  the  27th  of  April,  “we  have  had 
charming  spring  days.  The  garden  is  one  grove 
of  roses ; we  have  left  off  fires ; and  we  break- 
fast and  dine  again  in  the  great  hall,  with  tlie 
windows  open.  To-day  we  have  rain,  but  rain 
was  rather  wanted  I believe,  so  it  gives  offence 
to  nobody.  As  far  as  I have  had  an  oppor- 
tunity of  judging  yet,  the  spring  is  the  most 
delightful  time  in  this  country.  But  for  all  that, 
I am  looking  with  eagerness  to  the  tenth  of 
June,  impatient  to  renew  our  happy  old  walks 
and  old  talks  in  dear  old  home.” 

Of  incidents  during  these  remaining  w'eeks 
there  were  few,  but  such  as  he  mentioned  had 
in  them  points  of  humour  or  character  still 
worth  remembering.  Two  men  were  hanged  in 
the  city ; and  two  ladies  of  (piality,  he  told  me, 
agreed  to  keep  up  for  a time  a prayer  for  the 
souls  of  these  two  miserable  creatures  so  inces- 
sant tliat  Heaven  should  never  for  a moment  be 
left  alone  : to  which  end  “ tliey  relieved  each 


LAST  MONTHS  IN  UAL  V. 


179 


otlier  ” after  such  wise,  that,  for  the  whole  of  the 
stated  time,  one  of  them  was  always  on  her 
knees  in  the  cathedral  church  of  San  Lorenzo. 
From  which  he  inferred  that  “ a morbid  sym- 
pathy for  criminals  is  not  wholly  peculiar  to 
England,  though  it  affects  more  people  in  that 
country  perhaps  than  in  any  other.” 

Of  Italian  usages  to  the  dead  some  notices 
from  his  letters  have  been  given,  and  he  had  an 
example  before  he  left  of  the  way  in  which  they 
affected  English  residents.  A gentleman  of  his 
friend  Fletcher’s  acquaintance  living  four  miles 
from  Genoa  had  the  misfortune  to  lose  his  wife ; 
and  no  attendance  on  the  dead  beyond  the  city 
gate,  nor  even  any  decent  conveyance,  being 
practicable,  the  mourner,  to  whom  Fletcher  had 
promised  nevertheless  the  sad  satisfaction  of  an 
English  funeral,  which  he  had  meanwhile  taken 
enormous  secret  pains  to  arrange  with  a small 
Genoese  upholsterer,  was  waited  upon,  on  the 
appointed  morning,  by  a very  bright  yellow 
hackney-coach-and-pair  driven  by  a coachman 
in  yet  brighter  scarlet  knee-breeches  and  waist- 
coat, who  wanted  to  put  the  husband  and  the 
body  inside  together.  “ They  were  obliged  to 
leave  one  of  the  coach-doors  open  for  the  ac- 
commodation even  of  the  coffin  ; the  widower 
walked  beside  the  carriage  to  the  Protestant 
cemetery  3 and  Fletcher  followed  on  a big  grev 
horse.” 

Scarlet  breeches  reappear,  not  less  character- 
istically, in  what  his  next  letter  told  of  a couple 

* “ It  matters  little  now,”  says  Dickens,  after  describ- 
ing this  incident  in  one  of  his  minor  writings,  “ for 
coaches  of  all  colours  are  alike  to  poor  Kindheart,  and 
he  rests  far  north  of  the  little  cemetery  with  the  cypress 
trees,  by  the  city  walls  where  the  Mediterranean  is  so 
beautiful.”  Since  my  first  volume,  I observe  allusion 
made  to  Fletcher’s  mother,  in  Crabb  Robinson’s  Diary, 
as  formerly  a lady  of  great  renown  in  Scotland,  whose 
husband,  the  friend  of  Jeffrey,  Horner,  and  Brougham  in 
their  early  days,  had  been  counsel  for  Joseph  Gerrald  in 
1793-  “She  was  an  English  beauty  and  heiress. 
Brougham  eulogizes  her  in  his  collected  speeches.  I 

knew  her  30  years  ago  at  Mrs.  Barbauld’s She 

is  excellent  in  conversation.”  [Diary,  1844,  iii.  259.) 
Her  Autobiography  has  been  lately  published  by  her 
daughter.  Since  my  early  editions  I have  found  a letter 
from  Dickens  on  Fletcher’s  death  in  1862.  “Poor 
Fletcher  is  dead.  Just  as  I am  closing  my  letter  I hear  the 
sad  story.  He  had  been  taken  suddenly  ill  near  the  rail- 
way station  at  Leeds,  and  being  accidentally  recognized 
by  one  of  the  railway  men  was  carried  to  the  Infirmary, 
where  the  doctor  obtained  his  sister  Lady  Richardson’s 
address,  and  wrote  to  her.  She  arrived  to  find  him  in  a 
dangerous  state,  and  after  lingering  four  days  he  died. 
Poor  Kindheart ! I think  of  all  that  made  him  so  plea- 
sant to  us,  and  am  full  of  grief.”  From  another  sure 
source  I know  that  every  possible  attention  was  paid  to 
him,  and  that  for  the  last  three  days,  together  with  his 
sister,  his  brother-in-law  Sir  John  Richardson  was  in 
attendance. 


of  English  travellers  who  took  possession  at 
this  time  (24th  of  May)  of  a portion  of  the 
ground  floor  of  the  Peschiere.  They  had  with 
them  a meek  English  footman  who  immediately 
confided  to  Dickens’s  servants,  among  other 
persohal  grievances,  the  fact  that  he  was  made 
to  do  everything,  even  cooking,  in  crimson 
breeches ; which  in  a hot  climate,  he  protested, 
was  “ a grinding  of  him  down.”  “ He  is  a poor 
soft  country  fellow;  and  his  master  locks  him 
up  at  night  in  a basement  room  with  iron  bars 
to  the  window.  Between  which  our  servants 
poke  wine  in,  at  midnight.  Plis  master  and 
mistress  buy  old  boxes  at  the  curiosity  shops, 
and  pass  their  lives  in  lining  ’em  with  bits  of 
parti-coloured  velvet.  A droll  existence,  is  it 
not  ? We  are  lucky  to  have  had  the  palace  to 
ourselves  until  now,  but  it  is  so  large  that  we 
never  see  or  hear  these  people ; and  I should 
not  have  known  even,  if  they  had  not  called 
upon  us,  that  another  portion  of  the  ground 
floor  had  been  taken  by  some  friends  of  old 
Lady  Holland — whom  I again  seem  to  see 
crying  about  dear  Sydney  Smith,  behind  that 
green  screen  as  we  last  saw  her  together.” 

Then  came  a little  incident  also  characteristic. 
An  English  ship  of  war,  the  Fantome,  appeared 
in  the  harbour ; and  from  her  commander.  Sir 
Frederick  Nicholson,  Dickens  received,  among 
attentions  very  pleasant  to  him,  an  invitation  to 
lunch  on  board  and  bring  his  wife,  for  whom,  at 
a time  appointed,  a boat  was  to  be  sent  to  the 
Ponte  Reale  (the  royal  bridge).  But  no  boat 
being  there  at  the  time,  Dickens  sent  off  his  ser- 
vant in  another  boat  to  the  ship  to  say  he 
feared  some  mistake.  “ While  we  were  walking 
up  and  down  a neighbouring  piazza  in  his 
absence,  a brilliant  fellow  in  a dark  blue  shirt 
with  a white  hem  to  it  all  round  the  collar, 
regular  corkscrew  curls,  and  a face  as  brown  as 
a berry,  comes  up  to  me  and  says,  ‘ Beg  your 
pardon,  sir,  Mr.  Dickens  ? ’ ‘Yes.’  ‘ Beg  your 
pardon,  sir,  but  I’m  one  of  the  ship’s  company 
of  the  Phantom  sir,  cox’en  of  the  cap’en’s  gig 
sir,  she’s  a lying  off  the  pint  sir — been  there  half 
an  hour.’  ‘ Well  but  my  good  fellow,’  I said, 

‘ you’re  at  the  wrong  place  ! ’ ‘ Beg  your  par- 

don sir,  I was  afeerd  it  was  the  wrong  place  sir, 
but  I’ve  asked  them  Genoese  here  sir,  twenty 
times  if  it  was  Port  Real ! and  they  knows  no 
more  than  a dead  jackass  ! ’ — Isn’t  it  a good 
thing  to  have  made  a regular  Portsmouth  name 
of  it?” 

That  was  in  his  letter  of  the  ist  of  June; 
which  began  by  telling  me  it  had  been  twice 

* Sydney  died  on  the  22nd  of  February  (’45),  in  his 
77th  year. 


i8o 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


begun  and  twice  flung  into  the  basket,  so  great 
was  his  indisposition  to  write  as  the  time  for 
departure  came,  and  which  ended  thus.  “ The 
fire-flies  at  night  now,  are  miraculously  splendid ; 
making  another  firmament  among  the  rocks  on 
the  sea-shore,  and  the  vines  inland.  They  get 
into  the  bedrooms,  and  fly  about,  all  night,  like 
beautiful  little  lamps.*  ...  I have  surrendered 
much  I had  fixed  my  heart  upon,  as  you  know, 
admitting  you  have  had  reason  for  not  coming 
to  us  here : but  I stand  by  the  hope  that  you 
and  Mac  will  come  and  meet  us  at  Brussels  ; it 
being  so  very  easy.  A day  or  two  there,  and  at 
Antwerp,  would  be  very  happy  for  us ; and  we 
could  still  dine  in  Lincoln’s-inn-fields  on  the  day 
of  arrival.”  I had  been  unable  to  join  him  in 
Genoa,  urgently  as  he  had  wished  it ; but  what 
is  said  here  was  done,  and  Jerrold  was  added  to 
the  party. 

His  last  letter  from  Genoa  was  written  on  the 
yth  of  June,  not  from  the  Peschiere,  but  from  a 
neighbouring  palace,  “ Brignole  Rosso,”  into 
which  he  had  fled  from  the  miseries  of  mov- 

“ They  are  all  at  sixes  and  sevens  up  at  the 
Peschiere,  as  you  may  suppose ; and  Roche  is 
in  a condition  of  tremendous  excitement,  en- 
gaged in  settling  the  inventory  with  the  house- 
agent,  who  has  just  told  me  he  is  the  devil  him- 
self. I had  been  appealed  to,  and  had  con- 
tented myself  with  this  expression  of  opinion, 

‘ Signor  Noli,  you  are  an  old  impostor!  ’ ‘ Illus- 

trissimo,’  said  Signor  Noli  in  reply,  ‘ your  ser- 
vant is  the  devil  himself : sent  on  earth  to  tor- 
ture me.’  I look  occasionally  towards  the 
Peschiere  (it  is  visible  from  this  room),  expect- 
ing to  see  one  of  them  flying  out  of  a window. 
Another  great  cause  of  commotion  is,  that  they 
have  been  paving  the  lane  by  which  the  house 
is  approached,  ever  since  we  returned  from 
Rome.  We  have  not  been  able  to  get  the  car- 
riage up  since  that  time,  in  consequence ; and 
unless  they  finish  to-night,  it  can’t  be  packed  in 

* A remark  on  this,  made  in  my  reply,  elicited  what 
follows  in  a letter  during  his  travel  home ; “ Odd  enough 
that  remark  of  yours.  1 had  been  wondering  at  Rome 
that  Juvenal  (which  I have  been  always  lugging  out  of  a 
bag,  on  all  occasions)  never  used  the  fire-flies  for  an 
illustration.  But  even  now,  they  are  only  partially  seen  ; 
and  no  where  I believe  in  such  enormous  numbers  as  on 
ihe  Mediterranean  coast-road,  between  Genoa  and 
Spezzia.  I will  ascertain  for  curiosity’s  sake,  whether 
there  are  any  at  this  time  in  Rome,  or  between  it  and 
the  country-house  of  Maecenas — on  the  grouird  of  Ho- 
race’s journey.  1 know  there  is  a place  on  the  hrench 
side  of  Genoa,  where  they  begin  at  a particular  bouiulary- 

line,  and  are  never  seen  beyond  it All  wild  to 

see  you  at  Brussels  ! What  a meeting  we  will  have, 
please  God  ! ” 


the  garden,  but  the  things  will  have  to  be 
brought  down  in  baskets,  piecemeal,  and  packed 
in  the  street.  To  avoid  this  inconvenient  ne- 
cessity, the  Brave  made  proposals  of  bribery  to 
the  paviours  last  night,  and  induced  them  to 
pledge  themselves  that  the  carriage  should  come 
up  at  seven  this  evening.  The  manner  of  doing 
that  sort  of  paving  work  here,  is  to  take  a pick 
or  two  with  an  axe,  and  then  lie  down  to  sleep 
for  an  hour.  When  I came  out,  the  Brave  had 
issued  forth  to  examine  the  ground  : and  was 
standing  alone  in  the  sun  among  a heap  of  pros- 
trate figures  : with  a Great  Despair  depicted  in 
his  face,  which  it  would  be  hard  to  surpass. 
It  was  like  a picture — ‘ After  the  Battle.’ 
Napoleon  by  the  Brave  : Bodies  by  the 

Paviours.” 

He  came  home  by  the  Great  St.  Gothard,  and 
was  quite  carried  away  by  what  he  saw  of 
Switzerland.  The  country  was  so  divine  that  he 
should  have  wondered  indeed  if  its  sons  and 
daughters  had  ever  been  other  than  a patriotic 
people.  Yet,  infinitely  above  the  country  he 
had  left  as  he  ranked  it  in  its  natural  splendours, 
there  was  something  more  enchanting  than  these 
that  he  lost  in  leaving  Italy ; and  he  expressed 
this  delightfully  in  the  letter  from  Lucerne  (14th 
of  June)  which  closes  the  narrative  of  his  Italian 
life. 

“ We  came  over  the  St.  Gothard,  which  has 
been  open  only  eight  days.  The  road  is  cut 
through  the  snow,  and  the  carriage  winds  along 
a narrow  path  between  two  massive  snow  walls, 
twenty  feet  high  or  more.  Vast  plains  of  snow 
range  up  the  mountain-sides  above  the  road, 
itself  seven  thousand  feet  above  the  sea;  and 
tremendous  waterfalls,  hewing  out  arches  for 
themselves  in  the  vast  drifts,  go  thundering 
down  from  precipices  into  deep  chasms,  here 
;nd  there  and  everywhere ; the  blue  water  tear- 
ing through  the  white  snow  with  an  awful  beauty 
that  is  most  sublime.  The  pass  itself,  the  mere 
])ass  over  the  top,  is  not  so  fine,  I think,  as  the 
Simplon  ; and  there  is  no  plain  upon  the  sum- 
mit, for  the  moment  it  is  reached  the  descent 
begins.  So  that  the  loneliness  and  wildness  of 
the  Simplon  are  not  equalled  there.  But  being 
much  higher,  the  ascent  and  the  descent  range 
over  a much  greater  space  of  country ; and  on 
both  sides  there  are  places  of  terrible  grandeur, 
unsurpassable,  I should  imagine,  in  the  world. 
The  Devil’s  Bridge,  terrific  1 The  whole  descent 
between  Andermatt  (where  we  slept  on  Frida)' 
night)  and  Altorf,  William  d'eH’s  town,  which 
we  passed  through  yesterday  afternoon,  is  the 
highest  sublimation  of  all  you  can  imagine 
in  the  way  of  Swiss  scenery.  Oh  God! 


I 


A GAIN  IN  ENGLAND.  1 8 1 


■what  a beautiful  country  it  is ! How  poor 
and  sunken,  beside  it,  is  Italy  in  its  brightest 
aspect ] 

'•  I look  upon  the  coming  down  from  the 
Great  St.  Gothard  with  a carriage  and  four 
horses  and  only  one  postilion,  as  the  most  dan- 
gerous thing  that  a carriage  and  horses  can  do. 
We  had  two  great  wooden  logs  for  drags,  and 
snapped  them  both  like  matches.  The  road  is 
like  a geometrical  staircase,  with  horrible  depths 
beneath  it ; and  at  every  turn  it  is  a toss-up,  or 
seems  to  be,  whether  the  leaders  shall  go  round 
or  over.  The  lives  of  the  whole  party  may 
depend  upon  a strap  in  the  harness  3 and  if  we 
broke  our  rotten  harness  once  yesterday,  we 
broke  it  at  least  a dozen  times.  The  difficulty 
of  keeping  the  horses  together  in  the  continual 
and  steep  circle,  is  immense.  They  slip  and 
slide,  and  get  their  legs  over  the  traces,  and  are 
dragged  up  against  the  rocks  3 carriage,  horses, 
harness,  all  a confused  heap.  The  Brave,  and 
I,  and  the  postilion,  were  constantly  at  work, 
in  extricating  the  whole  concern  from  a tangle, 
like  a skein  of  thread.  We  broke  two  thick 
iron  chains,  and  crushed  the  box  of  a wheel,  as 
it  was  3 and  the  carriage  is  now  undergoing 
repair,  under  the  window,  on  the  margin  of  the 


lake : where  a woman  in  short  petticoats,  a 
stomacher,  and  two  immensely  long  tails  of 
black  hair  hanging  down  her  back,  very  nearly 
to  her  heels,  is  looking  on — apparently  dressed 
for  a melodrama,  but  in  reality  a waitress  at  this 
establishment. 

“ If  the  Swiss  villages  looked  beautiful  to  me 
in  winter,  their  summer  aspect  is  most  charm- 
ing : most  fascinating  : most  delicious.  Shut  in 
by  high  mountains  capped  with  perpetual  snow  3 
and  dotting  a rich  carpet  of  the  softest  turf, 
overshadowed  by  great  trees  3 they  seem  so 
many  little  havens  of  refuge  from  the  troubles 
and  miseries  of  great  towns.  The  cleanliness  of 
the  little  baby-houses  of  inns  is  wonderful  to 
those  who  come  from  Italy.  But  the  beautiful 
Italian  manners,  the  sweet  language,  the  quick 
recognition  of  a pleasant  look  or  cheerful  word  3 
the  captivating  expression  of  a desire  to  oblige 
in  everything  3 are  left  behind  the  Alps.  Re- 
membering them,  I sigh  for  the  dirt  again  : the 
brick  floors,  bare  walls,  unplastered  ceilings,  and 
broken  windows.” 

We  met  at  Brussels  3 Maclise,  Jerrold,  my- 
self, and  the  travellers  3 passed  a delightful  week 
in  Flanders  together  3 and  were  in  England  at 
the  close  of  June. 


BOOK  FIFTH.— LONDON, 
1845—1847. 

I.  Again  in  England. 

II.  Retreat  to  Switzerland. 

III.  Swiss  People  and  Scenerv. 

IV.  Sketches  chiefly  Personal. 


LAUSANNE,  AND  PARIS. 

^T.  33— 35-- 

V.  Literary  Labour  at  Lausanne. 

VI.  Genevese  Revolution  and  Battle 

OF  Life. 

VII.  Three  Months  in  Paris. 


I. 


AGAIN  IN  ENGLAND. 

1845—1846. 

’ IS  first  letter  after  again  taking  pos- 
session of  Devonshire-terrace  re- 
vived a subject  on  which  opinions 
had  been  from  time  to  time  inter- 
changed during  his  absence,  and  tc 
which  there  was  allusion  in  the  agree- 
ment executed  before  his  departure. 
The  desire  was  still  as  strong  with  him 
as  when  he  started  Master  Humphrey's  Clock  to 
establish  a periodical,  that,  while  relieving  his 
Life  of  Charles  Dickens,  13. 


own  pen  by  enabling  him  to  receive  frequent 
help  from  other  writers,  might  yet  retain  always 
the  popularity  of  his  name.  “ I really  think  I 
have  an  idea,  and  not  a bad  one,  for  the  peri- 
odical. I have  turned  it  over,  the  last  two 
days,  very  much  in  my  mind  : and  think  it 
positively  good.  I incline  still  to  weekly  3 price 
three  halfpence,  if  possible  3 partly  original, 
partly  select  3 notices  of  books,  notices  of  thea- 
tres, notices  of  all  good  things,  notices  of  all 
bad  ones  3 Cai'ol  philosophy,  cheerful  views, 
sharp  anatomization  of  humbug,  jolly  good 
temper  3 papers  always  in  season,  pat  to  the 
time  of  year  3 and  a vein  of  glowing,  hearty, 
generous,  mirthful,  beaming  reference  in  every- 
421 


2'HE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


182 


thing  to  Home,  and  Fireside.  And  I would 
call  it,  sir, — 


THE  CRICKET. 

A clieerful  creature  that  chirrups  on  the  Heartli. 

Natural  History. 


“ Now,  don’t  decide  hastily  till  you’ve  heard 
what  I would  do.  I would  come  out,  sir,  with 
a prospectus  on  the  subject  of  the  Cricket  that 
should  put  everybody  in  a good  temper,  and 
make  such  a dash  at  people’s  fenders  and  arm- 
chairs as  hasn’t  been  made  for  many  a long  day. 

I could  approach  them  in  a different  mode 
under  this  name,  and  in  a more  winning  and 
immediate  way,  than  under  any  other.  I would 
at  once  sit  down  upon  their  very  hobs  ; and 
take  a personal  and  confidential  position  with 
them  which  should  separate  me,  instantly,  from 
all  other  periodicals  periodically  published,  and 
supply  a distinct  and  sufficient  reason  for  my 
coming  into  existence.  And  I would  chirp, 
chirp,  chirp  away  in  every  number  until  I 

chirped  it  up  to well,  you  shall  say  how 

many  hundred  thousand  ! . . . . Seriously,  I 
feel  a capacity  in  this  name  and  notion  which 
appears  to  give  us  a tangible  starting-point,  and 
a real,  defined,  strong,  genial  drift  and  purpose. 
I seem  to  feel  that  it  is  an  aim  and  name  which 
people  would  readily  and  pleasantly  connect 
with  me ; and  that,  for  a good  course  and  a 
clear  one,  instead  of  making  circles  pigeon-like 
at  starting,  here  we  should  be  safe.  I think  the 
general  recognition  would  be  likefy  to  leap  at 
it ; and  of  the  helpful  associations  that  could  be 
clustered  round  the  idea  at  starting,  and  the 
pleasant  tone  of  which  the  working  of  it  is  sus- 
ceptible, I have  not  the  smallest  doubt 

But  you  shall  determine.  What  do  you  think  ? 
And  what  do  you  say?  The  chances  are,  that 
it  will  either  strike  you  instantly,  or  not  strike 
you  at  all.  Which  is  it,  my  dear  fellow?  You 
know  I am  not  bigoted  to  the  first  suggestions 
of  my  own  fancy ; but  you  know  also  exactly 
how  I should  use  such  a lever,  and  how  much 
power  I should  find  in  it.  Which  is  it?  What 
do  you  say? — I have  not  myself  said  half 
enough.  Indeed  I have  said  next  to  nothing ; 
but  like  the  parrot  in  the  negro-story,  I ‘ think 
a dam  deal.’  ” 

My  objection,  incident  more  or  less  to  every 
such  scheme,  was  the  risk  of  losing  its  general 
advantage  by  making  it  too  specially  dependent 
on  individual  characteristics : but  there  was 
much  in  favour  of  the  present  notion,  and  its 
plan  had  been  modified  so  fitr,  in  the  discus- 


sions that  followed,  as  to  involve  less  absolute 
personal  identification  with  Dickens,— when 
discussion,  project,  everything  was  swept  away 
by  a larger  scheme,  in  its  extent  and  its  danger 
more  suitable  to  the  wild  and  hazardous  enter- 
prises of  that  prodigious  year  (1845)  of  e.xcite- 
ment  and  disaster.  In  this  more  tremendous 
adventure,  already  hinted  at  on  a previous 
page,  we  all  became  involved  ; and  the  chirp 
of  the  Cricket,  delayed  in  consequence  until 
Christmas,  was  heard  then  in  circumstances 
quite  other  than  those  first  intended.  The 
change  he  thus  announced  to  me  about  half 
way  through  the  summer,  in  the  same  letter 
which  told  me  the  success  of  d’Orsay’s  kind 
exertion  to  procure  a fresh  engagement  for  his 
courier  Roche.  “ What  do  you  think  of  a 
notion  that  has  occurred  to  me  in  connection 
with  our  abandoned  little  weekly?  It  would 
be  a delicate  and  beautiful  fancy  for  a Christ- 
mas book,  making  the  Cricket  a little  household 
god — silent  in  the  wrong  and  sorrow  of  the 
tale,  and  loud  again  when  all  went  well  and 
ha])p3x”  The  reader  will  not  need  to  be  told 
that  thus  originated  the  story  of  the  Cricket  on 
the  Hearth,  a Fairy  Tale  of  Home,  which  had  a 
great  popularity  in  the  Christmas  days  of  1845. 

I ts  sale  at  the  outset  doubled  that  of  both  its 
predecessors. 

But  as  yet  the  larger  adventure  has  not  made 
itself  known,  and  the  interval  was  occupieil 
with  the  private  play  of  which  the  notion  had 
been  started  between  us  at  his  visit  in  De- 
cember, and  which  led  to  his  disclosure  of  a 
passage  in  his  early  career  belonging  to  that 
interval  between  his  school-days  and  start  in 
life  when  he  had  to  pass  nearly  two  weary  years 
as  a reporter  for  one  of  the  offices  in  Doctors’ 
Commons,  from  which  he  sought  relief  by  an 
attempt  to  get  upon  the  stage.  I had  asked 
him,  after  his  return  to  Genoa,  whether  he  con- 
tinued to  think  that  we  should  have  the  play ; 
and  his  reply  began  thus  : “ Are  we  to  have 
that  play  ? ? ? Have  I spoken  of  it,  ever  since 
I came  home  from  London,  as  a settled  thing! 
I do  not  know  if  I have  ever  told  you  seriously, 
but  I have  often  thought,  that  I should  certainly 
have  been  as  successful  on  the  boards  as  I have 
been  between  them.  I assure  you,  when  I was 
on  the  stage  at  Montreal  (not  having  played  for 
years)  I was  as  much  astonished  at  the  reality 
and  ease,  to  myself,  of  what  I did  as  if  I liad 
been  another  man.  See  how  oddly  things  come 
about!” 

Then  came  tlie  interesting  bit  of  autobio- 
graphy the  reader  has  had  before  him  (ante, 
24) ; and  his  account  of  the  stage  practice  he 


AGAIN  IN  ENGLAND. 


had  previously  gone  through  with  a view  to  the 
adventure,  contained  in  the  same  letter,  may  be 
added  here.  “This  was  at  the  time  when  I 
y-  was  at  Doctors’  Commons  as  a shorthand  writer 
for  the  proctors.  It  wasn’t  a very  good  living 
(though  not  a very  bad  one),  and  was  wearily 
uncertain  ; which  made  me  think  of  the  Tiieatre 
in  quite  a business-like  way.  I went  to  some 
I theatre  every  night,  with  a very  few  exceptions, 
for  at  least  three  years  : really  studying  the  bills 
first,  and  going  to  where  there  was  the  best 
acting : and  always  to  see  Mathews  whenever 
he  played.  I practised  immensely  (even  such 
things  as  walking  in  and  out,  and  sitting  down 
in  a chair) : often  four,  five,  six  hours  a day  : 
shut  up  in  my  own  room,  or  walking  about  in 
the  fields.  I prescribed  to  myself,  too,  a sort 
of  Hamiltonian  system  for  learning  parts ; and 
learnt  a great  number.  I haven’t  even  lost  the 
habit  now,  for  I knew  my  Canadian  parts 
immediately,  though  they  were  new  to  me. 
j I must  have  done  a good  deal : for,  just  as 
Macready  found  me  out,  they  used  to  challenge 
me  at  Braham’s  : and  Yates,  who  was  knowing 
enough  in  those  things,  wasn’t  to  be  parried  at 
all.  It  was  just  the  same,  that  day  at  Keeley’s, 
when  they  were  getting  up  the  Chuzzkmit  last 
June.  If  you  think  Macready  would  be  inter- 
ested in  this  Strange  news  from  the  South,  tell 
it  him.  Fancy  Bartley  or  Charles  Kemble  now  ! 
And  how  little  they  suspect  me  ! ” In  the  later 
letter  from  Lucerne,  written  as  he  was  travelling 
home,  he  adds  : “ Did  I ever  tell  you  the  details 
of  my  theatrical  idea,  before  ? Strange,  that  I 
should  have  quite  forgotten  it.  I had  an  odd 
fancy,  when  I was  reading  the  unfortunate  little 
farce  at  Covent-garden,  that  Bartley  looked  as 
if  some  struggling  recollection  and  connection 
were  stirring  up  within  him — but  it  may  only 
have  been  his  doubts  of  that  humorous  com- 
position.” 

What  Might  have  Been  is  a history  of  too 
little  profit  to  be  worth  anybody’s  writing,  and 
here  there  is  no  call  even  to  regret  how  great 
an  actor  was  in  Dickens  lost.  He  took  to  a 
higher  calling,  but  it  included  the  lower.  There 
was  no  character  created  by  him  into  which  life 
and  reality  were  not  thrown  with  such  vividness, 
that  to  his  readers  the  thing  written  did  not 
seem  the  thing  actually  done,  whether  the  form 
of  disguise  put  on  by  the  enchanter  was  Mrs. 
Gamp,  Tom  Pinch,  Mr.  Squeers,  or  Fagin  the 
Jew.  He  had  the  power  of  projecting  himself 
into  shapes  and  suggestions  of  his  fancy  which 
is  one  of  the  marvels  of  creative  imagination, 
and  what  he  desired  to  express  he  became. 
The  assumptions  of  the  theatre  have  the  same 


^83 


method  at  a lower  pitch,  depending  greatly  on 
personal  accident ; but  the  accident  as  much  as 
the  genius  favoured  Dickens,  and  another  man’s 
conception  underwent  in  his  acting  the  process 
which  in  writing  he  applied  to  his  own.  Into 
both  he  flung  himself  with  the  passionate  full- 
ness of  his  nature ; and  though  the  theatre  had 
limits  for  him  that  may  be  named  hereafter,  and 
he  was  always  greater  in  quickness  of  assumption 
than  in  steadiness  of  delineation,  there  was  no 
limit  to  his  delight  and  enjoyment  in  the  ad- 
ventures of  our  theatrical  holiday. 

In  less  than  three  weeks  after  his  return  we 
had  selected  our  play,  cast  our  parts,  and  all 
but  engaged  our  theatre ; as  I find  by  a note  I 
from  my  friend  of  the  22nd  of  July,  in  which  I 
the  good  natured  laugh  can  give  no  offence  now, 
since  all  who  might  have  objected  to  it  have 
long  gone  from  us.  Fanny  Kelly,  the  friend  of  | 
Charles  Lamb,  and  a genuine  successor  to  the 
old  school  of  actresses  in  which  the  Mrs.  Orgers 
and  Miss  Popes  were  bred,  was  not  more  de- 
lightful on  the  stage  than  impracticable  when 
off,  and  the  little  theatre  in  Dean-street  which 
the  Duke  of  Devonshire’s  munificence  had 
enabled  her  to  build,  and  which  with  any  or- 
dinary good  sense  might  handsomely  have  real- 
ized both  its  uses,  as  a private  school  for  young 
actresses  and  a place  of  public  amusement,  was 
made  useless  for  both  by  her  mere  whims  and 
fancies.  “ Heavens ! such  a scene  as  I have 
had  with  Miss  Kelly  here,  this  morning  ! She 
wanted  us  put  off  until  the  theatre  should  be 
cleaned  and  brushed  up  a bit,  and  she  would 
and  she  would  not,  for  she  is  eager  to  have  us 
and  alarmed  when  she  thinks  of  us.  By  the 
foot  of  Pharaoh,  it  was  a great  scene  ! Especially 
when  she  choked,  and  had  the  glass  of  water 
brought.  She  exaggerates  the  importance  of  our 
occupation,  dreads  the  least  prejudice  against 
her  establishment  in  the  minds  of  any  of  our 
company,  says  the  place  already  has  quite  ruined 
her,  and  with  tears  in  her  eyes  protests  that  any 
jokes  at  her  additional  expense  in  print  would 
drive  her  mad.  By  the  body  of  Csesar,  the 
scene  was  incredible  ! It’s  like  a preposterous 
dream  ! ” Something  of  our  play  is  disclosed  by 
the  oaths  ^ la  Bobadil,  and  of  our  actors  by  “ the 
jokes  ” poor  Miss  Kelly  was  afraid  of.  We  had 
chosen  Every  Man  in  his  Hu.mour,  with  spe- 
cial regard  to  the  singleness  and  individuality  of 
the  “ humours  ” portrayed  in  it  j and  our  com- 
pany included  the  leaders  of  a journal  then  in 
its  earliest  years,  but  already  not  more  renowned 
as  the  most  successful  joker  of  jokes  yet  known 
in  England,  than  famous  for  that  exclusive  use 
of  its  laughter  and  satire  for  objects  the  highest 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


184 


or  most  harmless  which  makes  it  still  so  enjoy- 
able a companion  to  mirth-loving  right-minded 
men.  Maclise  took  earnest  part  with  us,  and 
was  to  have  acted,  but  fell  away  on  the  eve  of 
the  rehearsals ; and  Stanfield,  who  went  so  far 
as  to  rehearse  Downright  twice,  then  took  fright 
and  also  ran  away ; but  Jerrold,  who  played  Mas- 
ter Stephen,  brought  with  him  Lemon,  who  took 
Brainworm ; Leech,  to  whom  Master  Matthew 
was  given;  A’Beckett,  who  had  condescended 
to  the  small  part  of  William ; and  Mr.  Leigh, 
who  had  Oliver  Cob.  I played  Kitely,  and 
Bobadil  fell  to  Dickens,  who  took  upon  him  the 
redoubtable  Captain  long  before  he  stood  in  his 
dress  at  the  footlights  ; humouring  the  complete- 
ness of  his  assumption  by  talking  and  writing 
Bobadil,  till  the  dullest  of  our  party  were  touched 
and  stirred  to  something  of  his  own  heartiness 
of  enjoyment.  One  or  two  hints  of  these 
have  been  given,  and  I will  only  add  to  them 
his  refusal  of  my  wish  that  he  should  go  and 
see  some  special  performance  of  the  Gamester. 
“ Man  of  the  House.  Gamester  ! By  the  foot 
of  Pharaoh,  I will  not  see  the  Gamester.  Man 
shall  not  force,  nor  horses  drag,  this  poor  gen- 
tleman-like carcass  into  the  presence  of  the 

Gamester.  I have  said  it The  player 

Mac  hath  bidden  me  to  eat  and  likewise  drink 
with  him,  thyself,  and  short-necked  Fox  to-night. 
An’  I go  not,  I am  a hog,  and  not  a soldier. 
But  an’  thou  goest  not — Beware  citizen  ! Look 

to  it Thine  as  thou  meritest.  Bobadil 

(Captain).  Unto  Master  Kitely.  These.” 

The  play  was  played  on  the  21st  of  Septem- 
ber with  a success  that  out-ran  the  wildest  ex- 
pectation ; and  turned  our  little  enterprise  into 
one  of  the  small  sensations  of  the  day.  The 
applause  of  the  theatre  found  so  loud  an  echo  in 
the  press,  that  for  the  time  nothing  else  was 
talked  about  in  private  circles ; and  after  a week 
or  two  we  had  to  yield  (we  did  not  find  it  diffi- 
cult) to  a pressure  of  demand  for  more  public 
performance  in  a larger  theatre,  by  which  a 
useful  charity  received  important  help,  and  its 
committee  showed  their  gratitude  by  an  enter- 
tainment to  us  at  the  Clarendon,  a month  or 
two  later,  when  Lord  Lansdowne  took  the  chair. 
There  was  also  another  performance  by  us  at 
the  same  theatre,  before  the  close  of  the  year,  of 
the  Elder  Brother  by  Beaumont  and  Fletcher. 
I may  not  farther  indicate  the  enjoyments  that 
attended  the  success,  and  gave  always  to  the 
first  of  our  series  of  performances  a pre-emi- 
nently pleasant  place  in  memory. 

Of  the  thing  itself,  however,  it  is  necessary  to 
be  said  that  a modicum  of  merit  goes  a long 
way  in  all  such  matters,  and  it  would  not  be 


safe  now  to  assume  that  ours  was  much  above  ' j 
the  average  of  amateur  attempts  in  general. 
Lemon  certainly  had  most  of  the  stuff,  conven- 
tional as  well  as  otherwise,  of  a regular  actor  in 
him,  but  this  was  not  of  a high  kind ; and 
though  Dickens  had  the  title  to  be  called  a 
born  comedian,  the  turn  for  it  being  in  his  very 
nature,  his  strength  was  rather  in  the  vividness 
and  variety  of  his  assumptions,  than  in  the  com- 
pleteness, finish,  or  ideality  he  could  give  to  any 
part  of  them.  It  is  expressed  exactly  by  what 
he  says  of  his  youthful  preference  for  the  repre- 
sentations of  the  elder  Mathews.  At  the  same 
time  this  was  in  itself  so  thoroughly  genuine  and 
enjoyable,  and  had  in  it  such  quickness  and 
keenness  of  insight,  that  of  its  kind  it  was  un- 
rivalled ; and  it  enabled  him  to  present  in  Boba- 
dil, after  a richly  coloured  picture  of  bombastical 
extravagance  and  comic  exaltation  in  the  earlier 
scenes,  a contrast  in  the  later  of  tragical  humility 
and  abasement  that  had  a wonderful  effect. 

But  greatly  as  his  acting  contributed  to  the 
success  of  the  night,  this  was  nothing  to  the 
service  he  had  rendered  as  manager.  It  would 
be  difficult  to  describe  it.  He  was  the  life  and 
soul  of  the  entire  affair.  I never  seemed  till 
then  to  have  known  his  business  capabilities. 

He  took  everything  on  himself,  and  did  the 
whole  of  it  without  an  effort.  He  was  stage-direc- 
tor, very  often  stage-carpenter,  scene-arranger, 
property-man,  prompter,  and  bandmaster.  With- 
out offending  any  one  he  kept  every  one  in 
order.  For  all  he  had  useful  suggestions,  and 
the  dullest  of  clays  under  his  potter’s  hand  were 
transformed  into  little  bits  of  porcelain.  He 
adjusted  scenes,  assisted  carpenters,  invented 
costumes,  devised  playbills,  wrote  out  calls,  and 
enforced  as  well  as  exhibited  in  his  proper  per- 
son everything  of  which  he  urged  the  necessity 
on  others.  Such  a chaos  of  dirt,  confusion,  and 
noise,  as  the  little  theatre  was  the  day  we  entered 
it,  and  such  a cosmos  as  he  made  it  of  cleanli- 
ness, order,  and  silence,  before  the  rehearsals 
were  over  ! There  were  only  two  things  left  as 
we  found  them,  bits  of  humanity  both,  under- 
stood from  the  first  as  among  the  fixtures  of  tlie 
place  : a Man  in  a Straw  Hat,  tall,  and  very  fit- 
ful in  his  exits  and  entrances,  of  whom  we  never 
could  pierce  the  mystery,  whether  he  was  on 
guard  or  in  possession,  or  what  he  was ; and  a 
solitary  little  girl,  who  flitted  about  so  silently 
among  our  actors  and  actresses  that  she  might 
have  been  deaf  and  dumb  but  for  sudden  small 
shrieks  and  starts  elicited  by  the  wonders  going 
on,  which  obtained  for  her  the  name  of  Fire- 
works. There  is  such  humorous  allusion  to 
both  in  a letter  of  Dickens’s  of  a year’s  later 


AG  Am  IN 


date,  on  the  occasion  of  the  straw-hatted  mys- 
tery revealing  itself  as  a gentleman  in  training 
for  the  tragic  stage,  that  it  may  pleasantly  close 
for  the  present  our  private  theatricals. 

“ Our  straw-hatted  friend  from  Miss  Kelly’s ! 
Oh  my  stars  ! To  think  of  him,  all  that  time — 
Macbeth  in  disguise ; Richard  the  Third  grown 
straight;  Hamlet  as  he  appeared  on  his  sea- 
voyage  to  England.  What  an  artful  villain  he 
must  be,  never  to  have  made  any  sign  of  the 
melodrama  that  was  in  him  ! What  a wicked- 
minded  and  remorseless  lago  to  have  seen  you 
doing  Kitely  night  after  night ! raging  to  murder 
you  and  seize  the  part  ! Oh  fancy  Miss  Kelly 
‘getting  him  up’  in  Macbeth.  Good  Heaven  ! 
what  a mass  of  absurdity  must  be  shut  up  some- 
times Avithin  the  walls  of  that  small  theatre  in 
Dean-street ! Fireworks  will  come  out  shortly, 
depend  upon  it,  in  the  dumb  line ; and  will 
relate  her  history  in  profoundly  unintelligible 
motions  that  will  be  translated  into  long  and 
complicated  descriptions  by  a grey-headed  father, 
and  a red-wigged  countryman,  his  son.  You 
remember  the  dumb  dodge  of  relating  an  escape 
from  captivity  ? Clasping  the  left  wrist  with  the 
right  hand,  and  the  right  wrist  with  the  left 
hand — alternately  (to  express  chains) — and  then 
going  round  and  round  the  stage  very  fast,  and 
coming  hand  over  hand  down  an  imaginary 
cord  : at  the  end  of  which  there  is  one  stroke 
on  the  drum,  and  a kneeling  to  the  chandelier  ? 
If  Fireworks  can’t  do  that— and  won’t  somewhere 
— I’m  a Dutchman.” 

Graver  things  now  claim  a notice  which  need 
not  be  proportioned  to  their  gravity,  because, 
though  they  had  an  immediate  effect  on  Dickens’s 
fortunes,  they  do  not  otherwise  form  part  of  his 
story.  But  first  let  me  say,  he  was  at  Broad- 
stairs  for  three  weeks  in  the  autumn ; * we  had 

* Characteristic  glimpse  of  this  Broadstairs  hohday  is 
afforded  by  a letter  of  the  19th  of  August,  1845.  “ Per- 

haps it  is  a fair  specimen  of  the  odd  adventures  which  be- 
fall the  inimitable,  that  the  cab  in  which  the  children  and 
the  luggage  were  (I  and  my  womankind  being  in  the 
other)  got  its  shafts  broken  in  the  city,  last  Friday  morn- 
ing, through  the  horse  stumbling  on  the  greasy  pave- 
ment ; and  was  drawn  to  the  wharf  (about  a mile)  by  a 
stout  man,  amid  such  frightful  howhngs  and  derisive 
yeUings  on  the  part  of  an  infuriated  populace,  as  I never 
heard  before.  Conceive  the  man  in  the  broken  shafts 
with  his  back  towards  the  cab ; all  the  children  looking 
out  of  the  windows  ; and  the  muddy  portmanteaus  and 
so  forth  (which  were  all  tumbled  down  when  the  horse 
fell)  tottering  and  nodding  on  the  box  ! The  best  of  it 
was,  that  our  cabman,  being  an  intimate  friend  of  the 
damaged  cabman,  insisted  on  keeping  him  company ; 
and  proceeded  at  a solemn  walk,  in  front  of  the  proces- 
sion ; thereby  securing  to  me  a liberal  share  of  the  popu- 
lar curiosity  and  congratulation Everything  here 

at  Broadstairs  is  the  same  as  of  old.  I have  walked  20 
miles  a day  since  I came  down,  and  I went  to  a circus  at 


ENGLAND.  185 


the  private  play  on  his  return ; and  a month 
later,  on  the  28th  of  October,  a sixth  child  and 
fourth  son,  named  Alfred  Tennyson  after  his 
godfathers  d’Orsay  and  Tennyson,  was  born  in 
Devonshire-terrace.  A death  in  the  family  fol- 
lowed, the  older  and  more  gifted  of  his  ravens 
having  indulged  the  same  illicit  taste  for  putty 
and  paint  which  had  been  fatal  to  his  prede- 
cessor. Voracity  killed  him  as  it  killed  Scott’s. 
He  died  unexpectedly  before  the  kitchen  fire. 
“ He  kept  his  eye  to  the  last  upon  the  meat  as 
it  roasted,  and  suddenly  turned  over  on  his 
back  with  a sepulchral  cry  of  Cuckoo The 
letter  which  told  me  this  (31st  of  October) 
announced  to  me  also  that  he  was  at  a dead 
lock  in  his  Christmas  story : “ Sick,  bothered, 
and  depressed.  Visions  of  Brighton  come  upon 
me ; and  I have  a great  mind  to  go  there  to 
finish  my  second  part,  or  to  Hampstead.  I 

have  a desperate  thought  of  Jack  Straw’s.  I 
never  was  in  such  bad  writing  cue  as  I am  this 
week,  in  all  my  life.”  The  reason  was  not  far 
to  seek.  In  the  preparation  for  the  proposed 
new  Daily  Paper  to  which  reference  has  been 
made,  he  was  now  actively  assisting,  and  had 
all  but  consented  to  the  publication  of  his 
name. 

I entertained  at  this  time,  for  more  than  one 
powerful  reason,  the  greatest  misgiving  of  his 
intended  share  in  the  adventure.  It  was  not 
fully  revealed  until  later  on  what  difficult  terms, 
physical  as  well  as  mental,  Dickens  held  the 
tenure  of  his  imaginative  life ; but  already  I 
knew  enough  to  doubt  the  wisdom  of  what  he  was 
at  present  undertaking.  In  all  intellectual 
labour,  his  rvill  prevailed  so  strongly  when  he 
fixed  it  on  any  object  of  desire,  that  rvhat  else 
its  attainment  might  exact  was  never  duly  mea- 
sured; and  this  led  to  frequent  strain  and  un- 
conscious waste  of  what  no  man  could  less  afford 
to  spare.  To  the  world  gladdened  by  his  work, 
its  production  might  always  have  seemed  quite 
as  easy  as  its  enjoyment;  but  it  maybe  doubted 
if  ever  any  man’s  mental  effort  cost  him  more. 
His  habits  were  robust,  but  not  his  health  ; that 
secret  had  been  disclosed  to  me  before  he  went 

Ramsgate  on  Saturday  night,  where  Mazeppa  was  played 
in  three  long  acts  without  an  H in  it : as  if  for  a wager. 
Evven,  and  edds,  and  errors,  and  ands,  were  as  plentiful 
as  blackberries  ; but  the  letter  H was  neither  whispered 
in  Evven,  nor  muttered  in  Ell,  nor  permitted  to  dwell  in 
any  form  on  the  confines  of  the  sawdust.”  With  this  I 
will  couple  another  theatrical  experience  of  this  holiday, 
when  he  saw  a Giant  played  by  a village  comedian  with 
a quite  Gargantuesque  felicity,  and  singled  out  for  ad- 
miration his  fine  manner  of  sitting  down  to  a hot  supper 
(of  children),  with  the  self-lauding  exalting  remark,  by 
way  of  grace,  “ How  pleasant  is  a quiet  conscience  and 
an  approving  mind  ! ” 


1 86  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

! to  America ; and  to  the  last  he  decidedly  re- 
fused to  admit  the  enormous  price  he  had  paid 
for  his  triumphs  and  successes.  The  morning 
after  his  last  note  I heard  again.  “ I have  been 
so  very  unwell  this  morning,  with  giddiness,  and 
headache,  and  botheration  of  one  sort  or  other, 
that  I didn’t  get  up  till  noon  : and,  shunning 
Fleet-street  ” (the  office  of  the  proposed  new 
paper),  “ am  now  going  for  a country  walk,  in 
the  course  of  which  you  will  find  me,  if  you  feel 
disposed  to  come  away  in  the  carriage  that  goes 
to  you  with  this.  It  is  to  call  for  a pull  of  the 
first  part  of  the  Cricket,  and  will  bring  you,  if 
you  like,  by  way  of  Hampstead  to  me,  and  sub- 
sequently to  dinner.  There  is  much  I should 
like  to  discuss,  if  you  can  manage  it.  It’s  the 
loss  of  my  walks,  I suppose ; but  I am  as  giddy 
as  if  I were  drunk,  and  can  hardly  see.”  I gave 
far  from  sufficient  importance  at  the  time  to  the 
frequency  of  complaints  of  this  kind,  or  to  the 
recurrence,  at  almost  regular  periods,  after  the 
year  following  the  present,  of  those  spasms  in 
the  side  of  which  he  has  recorded  an  instance 
in  the  recollections  of  his  childhood,  and  of 
which  he  had  an  attack  in  Genoa ; but  though 
not  conscious  of  it  to  its  full  extent,  this  con- 
sideration was  among  those  that  influenced  me 
in  a determination  to  endeavour  to  turn  him 
from  what  could  not  but  be  regarded  as  full  of 
peril.  His  health,  however,  had  no  real  promi- 
nence in  my  letter ; and  it  is  strange  now  to  ob- 
serve that  it  appears  as  an  argument  in  his 
reply.  I had  simply  put  before  him,  in  the 
strongest  form,  all  the  considerations  drawn 
from  his  genius  and  fame  that  should  deter  him 
from  the  labour  and  responsibility  of  a daily 
paper,  not  less  than  from  the  party  and  political 
involvements  incident  to  it ; and  here  was  the 
material  part  of  the  answer  made.  “ Many 
thanks  for  your  affectionate  letter,  which  is  full 
of  generous  truth.  These  considerations  weigh 
with  me,  heavily : but  I think  I descry  in  these 
times,  greater  stimulants  to  such  an  effort ; 
greater  chance  of  some  fair  recognition  of  it ; 
greater  means  of  persevering  in  it,  or  retiring 
from  it  unscratched  by  any  weapon  one  should 
care  for ; than  at  any  other  period.  And  most 
of  all  I have,  sometimes,  that  possibility  of  fail- 
ing health  or  fading  popularity  before  me,  which 
beckons  me  to  such  a venture  when  it  comes 
within  my  reach.  At  the  worst,  I have  written 
to  little  purpose,  if  I cannot  write  myself  right 
in  people’s  minds,  in  such  a case  as  this.” 

And  so  it  went  on  : but  it  does  not  fall  within 
my  . plan  to  describe  more  than  the  issue,  which 
was  to  be  accounted  so  far  at  least  fortunate 
that  it  established  a journal  which  has  advocated 

1 

steadily  improvements  in  the  condition  of  all 
classes,  rich  as  well  as  poor,  and  has  been  able, 
during  late  momentous  occurrences,  to  give 
wider  scope  to  its  influence  by  its  enterprise  and 
liberality.  To  that  result,  the  great  writer  whose 
name  gave  its  earliest  attraction  to  the  Daily 
News  was  not  enabled  to  contribute  much ; but 
from  him  it  certainly  received  the  first  impress 
of  the  opinions  it  has  since  consistently  main- 
tained. Its  prospectus  is  before  me  in  his  hand- 
writing, but  it  bears  upon  itself  sufficiently  the 
character  of  his  hand  and  mind.  The  paper 
would  be  kept  free,  it  said,  from  personal  influ- 
ence or  party  bias  ; and  would  be  devoted  to 
the  advocacy  of  all  rational  and  honest  means 
by  which  wrong  might  be  redressed,  just  rights 
maintained,  and  the  happiness  and  welfare  of 
society  promoted. 

The  day  for  the  appearance  of  its  first  number 
was  that  which  was  to  follow  Peel’s  speech  for 
the  repeal  of  the  corn  laws ; but,  brief  as  my 
allusions  to  the  subject  are,  the  remark  should 
be  made  that  even  before  this  day  came  there 
were  interruptions  to  the  work  of  preparation,  at 
one  time  very  grave,  which  threw  such  “ changes 
of  vexation”  on  Dickens’s  personal  relations  to 
the  venture  as  went  far  to  destroy  both  his  faith 
and  his  pleasure  in  it.  No  opinion  ireed  be 
offered  as  to  where  most  of  the  blame  lay,  and 
it  would  be  useless  now  to  apportion  the  share 
that  might  jrossibly  have  belonged  to  himself ; 
but,  owing  to  this  cause,  his  editorial  work 
began  with  such  diminished  ardour  that  its  brief 
continuance  could  not  but  be  looked  for.  A 
little  note  Avritten  “ before  going  home  ” at  six 
o’clock  in  the  morning  of  Wednesday  the  21st — , 
of  January  1846,  to  tell  me  they  had  “ been  at 
press  three  quarters  of  an  hour,  and  were  .out  i 
before  the  Times f marks  the  beginning ; and  a \ 
note  written  in  the  night  of  Monday  the  9th  of 
February,  “tired  to  death  and  quite  worn  out,” 
to  say  that  he  had  just  resigned  his  editorial 
functions,  describes  the  end.  I had  not  been 
unprepared.  A week  before  (Friday  30th 
January)  he  had  written  : “ I want  a long  talk 
with  you.  I was  obliged  to  come  down  here  in 
a hurry  to  give  out  a travelling  letter  I meant 
to  have  given  out  last  night,  and  could  not  call 
upon  you.  Will  you  dine  with  us  to-morrow  at 
six  sharp?  I have  been  revolving  ]>lans  in  my 
mind  this  morning  for  (putting  the  pa]>er  anil 
going  abroad  again  to  write  a new  book  in  shil- 
ling numbers.  Shall  we  go  to  Rochester  to- 
morrow week  (my  birthday)  if  the  weather  be,  as 
it  surely  must  be,  better.”  To  Rochester  ac- 
cordingly we  had  gone,  he  and  Mrs.  Dickens 
I and  her  sister,  with  Maclise  and  Jcrrold  and 

RETREAT  TO  SWITZERLAND.  187 

1 

i 

i 

myself;  going  over  the  old  Castle,  Watts’s  Cha- 
rity, and  Chatham  fortifications  on  the  Saturday, 
passing  Sunday  in  Cobham  church  and  Cobham 
park ; having  our  quarters  both  days  at  the  Bull 
inn  made  famous  in  Fickiuick ; and  thus,  by  in- 
dulgence of  the  desire  which  was  always  strangely 
urgent  in  him,  associating  his  new  resolve  in  life 
with  those  earliest  scenes  of  his  youthful  time. 
On  one  point  our  feeling  had  been  in  thorough 
agreement.  If  long  continuance  with  the  paper 
was  not  likely,  the  earliest  possible  departure 
from  it  was  desirable.  But  as  the  letters  de- 
scriptive of  his  Italian  travel  (turned  afterwards 
into  Pictin-es  from  Italy)  had  begun  with  its  first 
number,  his  name  could  not  at  once  be  with- 
drawn ; and,  for  the  time  during  which  they 
were  still  to  appear,  he  consented  to  contribute 
other  occasional  letters  on  important  social  ques- 
tions. Public  executions  and  Ragged  schools 
were  among  the  subjects  chosen  by  him,  and  all 
were  handled  with  conspicuous  ability.  But 
the  interval  they  covered  was  a short  one. 

To  the  supreme  control  which  he  had  quitted, 
I succeeded,  retaining  it  very  reluctantly  for  the 
greater  part  of  that  weary,  anxious,  laborious 
year  ; but  in  little  more  than  four  months  from 
the  day  the  paper  started,  the  whole  of  Dickens’s 
connection  with  the  Daily  Neivs,  even  that  of 
contributing  letters  with  his  signature,  had 
ceased.  As  he  said  in  the  preface  to  the  re- 
published Pictures,  it  was  a mistake,  in  so  de- 
parting from  his  old  pursuits,  to  have  disturbed 
the  old  relations  between  himself  and  his 
readers.  It  had  however  been  a “ brief  mis- 
take ; ” the  departure  had  been  only  “ for  a mo- 
ment ; ” and  now  those  pursuits  were  “ joyfully  ” 
to  be  resumed  in  Switzerland.  Upon  the  latter 
point  we  had  much  discussion ; but  he  was  bent 
on  again  removing  himself  from  London,  and 
his  glimpse  of  the  Swiss  mountains  on  his  com- 
ing from  Italy  had  given  him  a passion  to 
visit  them  again.  “ I don’t  think,”  he  wrote  to 
me,  “ I could  shut  out  the  paper  sufficiently,  here, 

to  write  well.  No I will  write  my  book 

in  Lausanne  and  in  Genoa,  and  forget  every- 
thing else  if  I can ; and  by  living  in  Switzer- 
land for  the  summer,  and  in  Italy  or  France 
for  the  winter,  I shall  be  saving  money  while  I 
write.”  So  therefore  it  was  finally  determined. 

There  is  not  much  that  calls  for  mention  be- 
fore he  left.  The  first  conceiving  of  a new  book 
was  always  a restless  time,  and  other  subjects 
besides  the  characters  that  were  growing  in  his 
mind  would  persistently  intrude  themselves  into 
his  night-wanderings.  With  some  surprise  I 
heard  /rom  him  afterwards,  for  example,  of  a 
communication  opened  with  a leading  member 

of  the  Government  to  ascertain  what  chances 
there  might  be  for  his  appointment,  upon  due 
qualification,  to  the  paid  magistracy  of  London  : 
the  reply  not  giving  him  encouragement  to  en- 
tertain the  notion  farther.  It  was  of  course  but 
an  outbreak  of  momentary  discontent ; and  if 
the  answer  had  been  as  hopeful,  as,  for  others’ 
sake  rather  than  his  own,  one  could  have  wished 
it  to  be,  the  result  would  have  been  the  same. 
Just  upon  the  eve  of  his  departure,  I may  add, 
he  took  much  interest  in  the  establishment  of 
the  General  Theatrical  Fund,  of  which  he  re- 
mained a trustee  until  his  death.  It  had  origi- 
nated in  the  fact  that  the  funds  of  the  two  large 
theatres,  themselves  then  disused  for  theatrical 
performances,  were  no  longer  available  for  the 
ordinary  members  of  the  profession ; and  on  the 
occasion  of  his  presiding  at  its  first  dinner  in 
April  he  said,  very  happily,  that  now  the  statue 
of  Shakespeare  outside  the  door  of  Drury-lane, 
as  emphatically  as  his  bust  inside  the  church  of 
Stratford-on-Avon,  pomted  out  his  grave.  I am 
tempted  also  to  mention  as  felicitous  a word 
which  I heard  fall  from  him  at  one  of  the  many 
private  dinners  that  were  got  up  in  those  days 
of  parting  to  give  him  friendliest  farewell. 
“ Nothing  is  ever  so  good  as  it  is  thought,”  said 
Lord  Melbourne.  “ And  nothing  so  bad,”  in- 
terposed Dickens. 

The  last  incidents  were  that  he  again  obtained 
Roche  for  his  travelling  servant,  and  that  he 
let  his  Devonshire-terrace  house  to  Sir  James 
Duke  for  twelve  months,  the  entire  proposed 
term  of  his  absence.  On  the  30th  of  May  they 
all  dined  with  me,  and  on  the  following  day  left 
England. 

II. 

RETREAT  TO  SWITZERLAND. 

1846. 

I^^^^^ALTING  only  at  Ostend,  Verviers, 
Coblentz,  and  Mannheim,  they 
Strasburg  on  the  7 th  of  June : 
the  beauty  of  the  weather  showing 
them  the  Rhine  at  its  best.  At  May- 
ence  there  had  come  aboard  their  boat  a 
German,  who  soon  after  accosted  Mrs. 
Dickens  on  deck  in  excellent  English : 
“ Your  countryman  Mr.  Dickens  is  travelling 
this  way  just  now,  our  papers  say.  Do  you 
know  him  or  have  you  passed  him  an}nvhere  ? ” 
Explanations  ensuing,  it  turned  out,  by  one  of  the 
odd  chances  my  friend  thought  himself  always 
singled  out  for,  that  he  had  with  him  a letter  of 

i?8  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DLCKENS. 


introduction  to  the  brother  of  this  gentleman  ; 
who  then  spoke  to  him  of  the  popularity  of  his 
books  in  Germany,  and  of  the  many  persons  he 
had  seen  reading  them  in  the  steamboats  as  he 
came  along.  Dickens  remarking  at  this  how 
great  his  own  vexation  was  not  to  be  able  him- 
self to  speak  a word  of  German,  “ Oh  dear ! 
that  needn’t  trouble  you,”  rejoined  the  other ; 
“ for  even  in  so  small  a town  as  ours,  where  we 
are  mostly  primitive  people  and  have  few  tra- 
vellers, I could  make  a party  of  at  least  forty 
people  who  understand  and  speak  English  as 
well  as  I do,  and  of  at  least  as  many  more  who 
could  manage  to  read  you  in  the  original.”  His 
town  was  Worms,  which  Dickens  afterwards  saw,’ 
. a fine  old  place,  though  greatly  shrunken 
and  decayed  in  respect  of  its  population ; with 
a picturesque  old  cathedral  standing  on  the 
brink  of  the  Rhine,  and  some  brave  old  churches 
shut  up,  and  so  hemmed  in  and  overgrown  with 
vineyards  that  they  look  as  if  they  were  turning 
into  leaves  and  grapes.” 

He  had  no  other  adventure  on  the  Rhine. 
But  on  the  same  steamer,  a not  unfamiliar  bit 
of  character  greeted  him  in  the  well-known  linea- 
ments, moral  and  physical,  of  two  travelling 
Englishmen  who  had  got  an  immense  barouche 
on  board  with  them,  and  had  no  plan  whatever 
of  going  anywhere  in  it.  One  of  them  wanted 
to  have  this  barouche  wheeled  ashore  at  every 
little  town  or  village  they  came  to.  The  other 
was  bent  upon  “ seeing  it  out,”  as  he  said — • 
meaning,  Dickens  supposed,  the  river ; though 
neither  of  them  seemed  to  have  the  slightest 
interest  in  it.  “The  locomotive  one  would 
have  gone  ashore  without  the  carriage,  and 
would  have  been  delighted  to  get  rid  of  it ; but 
they  had  a joint  courier,  and  neither  of  them 
would  part  with  him  for  a moment ; so  they 
went  growling  and  grumbling  on  together,  and 
seemed  to  have  no  satisfaction  but  in  asking 
for  impossible  viands  on  board  the  boat,  and 
having  a grim  delight  in  the  steward’s  excuses.” 
From  Strasburg  they  went  by  rail  on  the  8th 
to  Bale,  from  which  they  started  for  Lausanne 
next  day,  in  three  coaches,  two  horses  to  each, 
taking  three  days  for  the  journey ; its  only 
enlivening  incident  being  an  uproar  between  the 
landlord  of  an  inn  on  the  road,  and  one  of  the 
voituriers  who  had  libelled  Boniface’s  establish- 
ment by  complaining  of  the  food.  “After 
various  defiances  on  both  sides,  the  landlord 
said  ‘ Scelerat ! Mdcreant ! Je  vous  boaxerai ! ’ 
to  which  the  voiturier  replied,  ‘ Aha  ! Com- 
ment dites-vous  ? Voulez-vous  hoaxer  ? Eh  ? 
Voulez-vous?  Ah!  Boaxez-moi  done ! Boaxez- 
moi ! ’ — at  the  same  time  accompanying  these 


retorts  with  gestures  of  violent  significance, 
which  explained  that  this  new  verb-active  was 
founded  on  the  well-known  English  verb  to- 
boax,  or  box.  If  they  used  it  once,  they  used 
it  at  least  a hundred  times,  and  goaded  each 
other  to  madness  with  it  always.”  The  travellers 
reached  the  hotel  Gibbon  at  Lausanne  on  the 
evening  of  Thursday  the  iith  of  June;  having 
been  tempted  as  they  came  along  to  rest  some- 
what short  of  it,  by  a delightful  glimpse  of 
Neuchatel.  “ On  consideration  however  I 
thought  it  best  to  come  on  here,  in  case  I 
should  find,  when  I begin  to  write,  that  I want 
streets  sometimes.  In  which  case,  Geneva 
(which  I hope  would  answer  the  purpose)  is  only 
four  and  twenty  miles  away.” 

He  at  once  began  house-hunting,  and  had  two 
days’  hard  work  of  it.  He  found  the  greater 
part  of  those  let  to  the  English  like  small  villas 
in  the  Regent’s-park,  with  verandahs,  glass  doors 
opening  on  lawns,  and  alcoves  overlooking  lake 
and  mountains.  One  he  was  tempted  by, 
higher  up  the  hill,  “ poised  above  the  town  like 
a ship  on  a high  wave  but  the  possible  fury 
of  its  winter  winds  deterred  him.  Greater  still 
was  the  temptation  to  him  of  “ L’Elysee,”  more 
a mansion  than  a villa ; with  splendid  grounds 
overlooking  the  lake,  and  in  its  corridors  and 
staircases  as  well  as  furniture  like  an  old 
fashioned  country  house  in  England  ; which  he 
could  have  got  for  twelve  months  for 
“ But  when  I came  to  consider  its  vastness,  I 
was  rather  dismayed  at  the  prospect  of  windy 
nights  in  the  autumn,  with  nobody  staying  in 
the  house  to  make  it  gay.”  And  so  he  again 
fell  back  upon  the  very  first  place  he  had  seen, 
Rosemont,  quite  a doll’s  house  ; with  two  pretty 
little  salons,  a dining-room,  hall,  and  kitchen, 
on  the  ground  floor ; and  with  just  enough  bed- 
rooms upstairs  to  leave  the  family  one  to  spare. 
“ It  is  beautifully  situated  on  the  hill  that  rises, 
from  the  lake,  within  ten  minutes’  walk  of  this 
hotel,  and  furnished,  though  scantily  as  all  here 
are,  better  than  others,  except  Elysee,  on  account 
of  its  having  been  built  and  fitted  up  (the  little 
salons  in  the  Parisian  way)  by  the  landlady  and 
her  husband  for  themselves.  They  live  now  in 
a smaller  house  like  a porter’s  lodge,  just  within 
the  gate.  A portion  of  the  grounds  is  farmed 
by  a farmer,  and  he  lives  close  by ; so  that, 
while  it  is  secluded,  it  is  not  at  all  lonely.”  Tire 
rent  was  to  be  ten  pounds  a month  for  half  a 
year,  with  reduction  to  eight  for  the  second  half, 
if  he  should  stay  so  long ; and  the  rooms  and 
furniture  were  to  be  tlcscribed  to  me,  so  that 
according  to  custom  I should  be  quite  at  home 
there,  as  soon  as,  also  according  to  a custom 


RETREAT  TO  SWITZERLAND. 


well-known,  his  own  ingenious  re-arrangements 
and  improvements  in  the  chairs  and  tables 
should  be  completed.  “ I shall  merely  observe 
at  present  therefore,  that  my  little  study  is  up- 
stairs, and  looks  out,  from  two  French  windows 
opening  into  a balcony,  on  the  lake  and  moun- 
tains ; and  that  there  are  roses  enough  to 
smother  the  whole  establishment  of  the  Daily 
Ncivs  in.  Likewise,  there  is  a pavilion  in  the 
garden,  which  has  but  two  rooms  in  it ; in  one 
of  which,  I think  you  shall  do  your  work  when 
you  come.  As  to  bowers  for  reading  and 
smoking,  there  are  as  many  scattered  about  the 
grounds  as  there  are  in  Chalk-farm  tea-gardens. 
But  the  Rosemont  bowers  are  really  beautiful. 
Will  you  come  to  the  bowers  ....?” 

Very  pleasant  were  the  earliest  impressions  of 
Switzerland  with  which  this  first  letter  closed. 
“ The  country  is  delightful  in  the  extreme — as 
leafy,  green,  and  shady,  as  England ; full  of 
deep  glens,  and  branchy  places  (rather  a Leigh 
Huntish  expression),  and  bright  with  all  sorts 
of  flowers  in  profusion.  It  abounds  in  singing 
birds  besides — very  pleasant  after  Italy;  and 
the  moonlight  on  the  lake  is  noble.  Prodigious 
mountains  rise  up  from  its  opposite  shore  (it  is 
eight  or  nine  miles  across,  at  this  point),  and  the 
Simplon,  the  St.  Gothard,  Mont  Blanc  and  all 
the  Alpine  wonders  are  piled  there,  in  tre- 
mendous grandeur.  The  cultivation  is  uncom- 
monly rich  and  profuse.  There  are  all  manner 
of  walks,  vineyards,  green  lanes,  corn-fields,  and 
pastures  full  of  hay.  The  general  neatness  is  as 
remarkable  as  in  England.  There  are  no  priests 
or  monks  in  the  streets,  and  the  people  appear 
to  be  industrious  and  thriving.  French  (and 
very  intelligible  and  pleasant  French)  seems  to 
be  the  universal  language.  I never  saw  so 
many  booksellers’  shops  crammed  within  the 
same  space,  as  in  the  steep  up-and-down  streets 
of  Lausanne.” 

Of  the  little  town  he  spoke  in  his  next  letter 
as  having  its  natural  dulness  increased  by  that 
fact  of  its  streets  going  up  and  down  hill 
abruptly  and  steeply,  like  the  streets  in  a dream ; 
and  the  consequent  difficulty  of  getting  about  it. 
“ There  are  some  suppressed  churches  in  it, 
now  used  as  packers’  warehouses  : with  cranes 
and  pulleys  growing  out  of  steeple-towers  ; little 
doors  for  lowering  goods  through,  fitted  into 
blocked-up  oriel  windows ; and  cart-horses 
stabled  in  crypts.  These  also  help  to  give  it  a 
deserted  and  disused  appearance.  On  the  other 
hand,  as  it  is  a perfectly  free  place  subject  to 
no  prohibitions  or  restrictions  of  any  kind, 
there  are  all  sorts  of  new  French  books  and 
publications  in  it,  and  all  sorts  of  fresh  intel- 


189 


ligence  from  the  world  beyond  the  Jura  moun- 
tains. It  contains  only  one  Roman  Catholic 
church,  which  is  mainly  for  the  use  of  the 
Savoyards  and  Piedmontese  who  come  trading 
over  the  Alps.  As  for  the  country,  it  cannot 
be  praised  too  highly,  or  reported  tooLeautiful. 
There  are  no  great  waterfalls,  or  walks  through 
mountain-gorges  dose  at  hand,  as  in  some  other 
parts  of  Switzerland ; but  there  is  a charming 
variety  of  enchanting  scenery.  There  is  the 
shore  of  the  lake,  where  you  may  dip  your  feet, 
as  you  walk,  in  the  deep  blue  water,  if  you 
choose.  There  are  the  hills  to  climb  up,  lead- 
ing to  the  great  heights  above  the  town  ; or  to 
stagger  down,  leading  to  the  lake.  There  is  every 
possible  variety  of  deep  green  lanes,  vineyard, 
cornfield,  pasture-land,  and  wood.  There  are 
excellent  country  roads  that  might  be  in  Kent 
or  Devonshire  : and,  closing  up  every  view  and 
vista,  is  an  eternally  changing  range  of  pro- 
digious mountains — sometimes  red,  sometimes 
grey,  sometimes  purple,  sometimes  black,  some- 
times white  with  snow ; sometimes  close  at 
hand ; and  sometimes  very  ghosts  in  the  clouds 
and  mist.” 

In  the  heart  of  these  things  he  was  now  to 
live  and  work  for  at  least  six  months ; and,  as 
the  love  of  nature  was  as  much  a passion  with 
him  in  his  intervals  of  leisure,  as  the  craving  for 
crowds  and  streets  when  he  was  busy  with  the 
creatures  of  his  fancy,  no  man  was  better  quali- 
fied to  enjoy  what  was  thus  open  to  him  from 
his  little  farm. 

The  view  from  each  side  of  it  was  different  in 
character,  and  from  one  there  was  visible  the 
liveliest  aspect  of  Lausanne  itself,  close  at  hand, 
and  seeming,  as  he  said,  to  be  always  coming 
down  the  hill  with  its  steeples  and  towers,  not 
able  to  stop  itself.  “ From  a fine  long  broad 
balcony  on  which  the  windows  of  my  little  study 
on  the  first  floor  (where  I am  now  writing) 
open,  the  lake  is  seen  to  wonderful  advantage,, 
— losing  itself  by  degrees  in  the  solemn  gorge  of 
mountains  leading  to  the  Simplon  pass.  Under 
the  balcony  is  a stone  colonnade,  on  which  the 
six  French  windows  of  the  drawing-room  open 
and  quantities  of  plants  are  clustered  about  the 
pillars  and  seats  very  prettily.  One  of  these 
drawing-rooms  is  furnished  (like  a French  hotel) 
with  red  velvet,  and  the  other  with  green;  in 
both,  plenty  of  mirrors  and  nice  white  muslin 
curtains  ; and  for  the  larger  one  in  cold  weather 
there  is  a carpet,  the  floors  being  bare  now,  but 
inlaid  in  squares  with  different-coloured  woods.” 
His  description  did  not  close  until,  in  every 
nook  and  corner  inhabited  by  the  several  mem- 
bers of  the  family,  I was  made  to  feel  myself  at 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DLCKENS. 


190 


home ; but  only  the  final  sentence  need  be 
added.  “Walking  out  into  the  balcony  as  I 
write,  I am  suddenly  reminded,  by  the  sight  of 
the  Castle  of  Chillon  glittering  in  the  sunlight 
on  the  lake,  that  I omitted  to  mention  that  ob- 
ject in  my  catalogue  of  the  Rosemont  beauties. 
Please  to  put  it,  like  George  Robins,  in  a line 
by  itself.” 

Regular  evening  walks  of  nine  or  ten  miles 
were  named  in  the  same  letter  (22nd  of  June) 
as  having  been  begun : and  thoughts  of  his 
books  were  already  stirring  in  him.  “ An  odd 
shadowy  undefined  idea  is  at  work  within  me, 
that  I could  connect  a great  battle-field  some- 
how with  my  little  Christmas  story.  Shapeless 
visions  of  the  repose  and  peace  pervading  it  in 
a.fter-time;  with  the  corn  and  grass  growing 


over  the  slain,  and  people  singing  at  the  plough ; 
are  so  perpetually  floating  before  me,  that  I 
cannot  but  think  there  may  turn  out  to  be  some- 
thing good  in  them  when  I see  them  more 

plainly I want  to  get  Four  Numbers  of 

the  monthly  book  done  here,  and  the  Christmas 
book.  If  all  goes  well,  and  nothing  changes, 
and  I can  accomplish  this  by  the  end  of 
November,  I shall  run  over  to  you  in  England 
for  a few  days  with  a light  heart,  and  leave 
Roche  to  move  the  caravan  to  Paris  in  the 
meanwhile.  It  will  be  just  the  very  point  in 
the  story  when  the  life  and  crowd  of  that  extra- 
ordinary place  will  come  vividly  to  my  assistance 
in  writing.”  Such  was  his  design  ; and,  though 
difficulties  not  now  seen  started  up  which  he  had 
a hard  fight  to  get  through,  he  managed  to 


Rosemont. 


accomplish  it.  His  letter  ended  with  a promise 
to  tell  me,  when  next  he  wrote,  of  the  small 
colony  of  English  who  seemed  ready  to  give 
him  even  more  than  the  usual  welcome.  Two 
visits  had  thus  early  been  paid  him  by  Mr.  Hal- 
dimand,  formerly  a member  of  the  English  par- 
liament, an  accomplished  man,  who,  with  his 
sister,  Mrs.  Marcet  (the  well-known  authoress), 
had  long  made  Lausanne  his  home.  He  had  a 
very  fine  seat  just  below  Rosemont,  and  his  cha- 
racter and  station  had  made  him  quite  the  little 
sovereign  of  the  place.  “ He  has  founded  and 
endowed  all  sorts  of  hospitals  and  institutions 
here,  and  he  gives  a dinner  to-morrow  to  intro- 
duce our  neighbours,  whoever  they  are.” 

He  found  them  to  be  happily  the  kind  of 
people  who  rendered  entirely  pleasant  those 


frank  and  cordial  hospitalities  which  the  charm 
of  his  personal  intercourse  made  every  one  so 
eager  to  offer  him.  The  dinner  at  Mr.  Haldi- 
mand’s  was  followed  by  dinners  from  the  guests 
he  met  there ; from  an  English  lady  married  to 
a Swiss,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cerjat,  clever  and  agree- 
able both,  far  beyond  the  common  ; from  her 
sister  wedded  to  an  Englishman,  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Goff ; and  from  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Watson  of  Rock- 
ingham Castle  in  Northamptonshire,  who  had 
taken  the  Elysee  on  Dickens  giving  it  up,  and 
with  whom,  as  with  Mr.  Haldimand,  his  relations 
continued  to  be  very  intimate  long  after  he  left 
Lausanne.  In  his  drive  to  Mr.  Cerjat’s  dinner 
a whimsical  difficulty  ])iesented  itsell.  He  had 
set  up,  for  use  of  his  wife  and  children,  an  odd 
little  one-horse  carriage ; made  to  hold  three 


RETREAT  TO  SWITZERLAND. 


persons  sideways,  so  that  they  should  avoid  the 
wind  always  blowing  up  or  down  the  valley ; 
and  he  lound  it  attended  with  one  of  the 
drollest  consequences  conceivable.  “ It  can’t 
be  easily  turned ; and  as  you  face  to  the  side, 
all  sorts  of  evolutions  are  necessary  to  bring  you 
‘ broadside-to  ’ before  the  door  of  the  house 
where  you  are  going.  The  country  houses  here 
are  very  like  those  upon  the  Thames  between 
Richmond  and  Kingston  (this,  particularly), 
with  grounds  all  round.  At  Mr.  Cerjat’s  we 
were  obliged  to  be  carried,  like  the  child’s 
riddle,  round  the  house  and  round  the  house, 
without  touching  the  house ; and  we  were  pre- 
sented in  the  most  alarming  manner  three  of  a 
row,  first  to  all  the  people  in  the  kitchen,  then  to 
the  governess  who  was  dressing  in  her  bedroom, 
then  to  the  drawing-room  where  the  company 
were  waiting  for  us,  then  to  the  dining-room 
where  they  were  spreading  the  table,  and  finally 
to  the  hall  where  we  were  got  out — scraping  the 
windows  of  each  apartment  as  we  glared  slowly 
into  it.” 

A dinner  party  of  his  own  followed  of  course  ; 
and  a sad  occurrence,  of  which  he  and  his 
guests  were  unconscious,  signalised  the  evening 
(15th  of  July).  “While  we  were  sitting  at 
dinner,  one  of  the  prettiest  girls  in  Lausanne 
was  drowned  in  the  lake — in  the  most  peaceful 
water,  reflecting  the  steep  mountains,  and  crim- 
son with  the  setting  sun.  She  was  bathing  in 
one  of  the  nooks  set  apart  for  women,  and  seems 
somehow  to  have  entangled  her  feet  in  the 
skirts  of  her  dress.  She  was  an  accomplished 
swimmer,  as  many  of  the  girls  are  here,  and 
drifted,  suddenly,  out  of  only  five  feet  water. 
Three  or  four  friends  who  were  with  her,  ran 
away,  screaming.  Our  children’s  governess  was 
on  the  lake  in  a boat  with  M.  Verdeil  (my 
prison-doctor)  and  his  family.  They  ran  in- 
shore immediately;  the  body  was  quickly  got 
out;  and  M.  Verdeil,  with  three  or  four  other 
doctors,  laboured  for  some  hours  to  restore  ani- 
mation : but  she  only  sighed  once.  After  all 
that  time,  she  was  obliged  to  be  borne,  stiff  and 
stark,  to  her  father’s  house.  She  was  his  only 
child,  and  but  17  years  old.  He  has  been 
nearly  dead  since,  and  all  Lausanne  has  been 
full  of  the  story.  I was  down  by  the  lake, 
near  the  place,  last  night;  and  a boatman 
acted  to  me  the  whole  scene ; depositing  him- 
self finally  on  a heap  of  stones,  to  represent  the 
body.” 

With  M.  Verdeil,  physician  to  the  prison  and 
vice-president  of  the  council  of  health,  intro- 
duced by  Mr.  Haldimand,  there  had  already 
been  much  communication ; and  I could  give 


191 


nothing  more  characteristic  of  Dickens  than  his 
reference  to  this,  and  other  similar  matters  in 
which  his  interest  was  strongly  moved  during 
his  first  weeks  at  Lausanne. 

“Some  years  ago,  when  they  set  about  re- 
forming the  prison  at  Lausanne,  they  turned 
their  attention,  in  a correspondence  of  repub- 
lican feeling,  to  America ; and  taking  the  Phila- 
delphian system  for  granted,  adopted  it.  Ter- 
rible fits,  new  phases  of  mental  affection,  and 
horrible  madness,  among  the  prisoners,  were 
very  soon  the  result : and  attained  to  such  an 
alarming  height,  that  M.  Verdeil,  in  his  public 
capacity,  began  to  report  against  the  system,  and 
went  on  reporting  and  working  against  it  until 
he  formed  a party  who  were  determined  not  to 
have  it,  and  caused  it  to  be  abolished — except 
in  cases  where  the  imprisonment  does  not  exceed 
ten  months  in  the  whole.  It  is  remarkable  that 
in  his  notes  of  the  different  cases,  there  is  every 
I mentioned  as  having  observed  myself  at 
Philadelphia  ; even  down  to  those  contained  in 
the  description  of  the  man  who  had  been  there 
thirteen  years,  and  who  picked  his  hands  so  much 
as  he  talked.  He  has  only  recently,  he  says, 
read  the  A}?ierican  Notes;  but  he  is  so  much 
struck  by  the  perfect  coincidence  that  he  in- 
tends to  republish  some  extracts  from  his  own 
notes,  side  by  side  with  these  passages  of  mine 
translated  into  French.  I went  with  him  over 
the  prison  the  other  day.  It  is  wonderfully  well 
arranged  for  a continental  jail,  and  in  perfect 
order.  The  sentences,  however,  or  some  of 
them,  are  very  terrible.  I saw  one  man  sent 
there  for  murder  under  circumstances  of  miti- 
gation— for  30  years.  Upon  the  silent  social 
system  all  the  time ! They  weave,  and  plait 
straw,  and  make  shoes,  small  articles  of  turnery 
and  carpentry,  and  little  common  wooden  clocks. 
But  the  sentences  are  too  long  for  that  mono- 
tonous and  hopeless  life ; and,  though  they  are 
well-fed  and  cared  for,  they  generally  break 
down  utterly  after  two  or  three  years.  One  de- 
lusion seems  to  become  common  to  three-fourths 
of  them  after  a certain  time  of  imprisonment. 
Under  the  impression  that  there  is  something 
destructive  put  into  their  food  ‘pour  les  guerir 
de  crime’  (says  M.  Verdeil),  they  refuse  to 
eat ! ” 

It  was  at  the  Blind  Institution,  however,  of 
which  Mr.  Haldimand  was  the  president  and 
great  benefactor,  that  Dickens’s  attention  was 
most  deeply  arrested  ; and  there  were  two  cases 
in  especial  of  which  the  detail  may  be  read 
with  as  much  interest  now  as  when  my  friend’s 
letters  were  written,  and  as  to  which  his  own 
suggestions  open  up  still  rather  startling  trains 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


192 


of  thought.  The  first,  which  in  its  attraction 
for  him  he  found  equal  even  to  Laura  Bridg- 
man’s, was  that  of  a young  man  of  18:  “born 
deaf  and  dumb,  and  stricken  blind  by  an  acci- 
dent when  he  was  about  five  years  old.  The 
Director  of  the  institution,  M.  Hertzel,  is  a 
young  German  of  great  ability,  and  most  un- 
commonly prepossessing  appearance.  He  pro- 
pounded to  the  scientific  bodies  of  Geneva,  a 
year  ago  (when  this  young  man  was  under  edu- 
cation in  the  asylum),  the  possibility  of  teach- 
ing him  to  speak — in  other  words,  to  play  with 
his  tongue  upon  his  teeth  and  palate  as  if  on  an 
instrument,  and  connect  particular  performances 
with  particular  words  conveyed  to  him  in  the 
finger-language.  They  unanimously  agreed  that 
it  was  quite  impossible.  The  German  set  to 
work,  and  the  young  man  now  speaks  very 
plainly  and  distinctly : without  the  least  modu- 
lation, of  course,  but  with  comparatively  little 
hesitation ; expressing  the  words  aloud  as  they 
are  struck,  so  to  speak,  upon  his  hands ; and 
showing  the  most  intense  and  wonderful  delight 
in  doing  it.  This  is  commonly  acquired,  as 
you  know,  by  the  deaf  and  dumb  who  learn  by 
sight ; but  it  has  never  before  been  achieved 
in  the  case  of  a deaf,  dumb,  and  blind  subject. 
He  is  an  extremely  lively,  intelligent,  good- 
humoured  fellow;  an  excellent  carpenter;  a 
first-rate  turner ; and  runs  about  the  building 
with  a certainty  and  confidence  which  none  of 
the  merely  blind  pupils  acquire.  He  has  a great 
many  ideas,  and  an  instinctive  dread  of  death. 
He  knows  of  God,  as  of  Thought  enthroned 
somewhere  ; and  once  told,  on  nature’s  prompt- 
ing (the  devil’s  of  course),  a lie.  He  was  sitting 
at  dinner,  and  the  Director  asked  him  whether 
he  had  had  anything  to  drink ; to  which  he 
instantly  replied  ‘ No,’  in  order  that  he  might 
get  some  more,  though  he  had  been  served  in 
his  turn.  It  was  explained  to  him  that  this 
was  a wrong  thing,  and  wouldn’t  do,  and  that 
he  was  to  be  locked  up  in  a room  for  it : which 
was  done.  Soon  after  this,  he  had  a dream  of 
being  bitten  in  the  shoulder  by  some  strange 
animal.  As  it  left  a great  impression  on  his 
mind,  he  told  M.  the  Director  that  he  had  told 
another  lie  in  the  night.  In  proof  of  it  he 
related  his  dream,  and  added,  ‘ it  must  be  a lie, 
you  know,  because  there  is  no  strange  animal 
here,  and  I never  was  bitten.’  Being  informed 
that  this  sort  of  lie  was  a harmless  one,  and  was 
called  a dream,  he  asked  whether  dead  people 
ever  dreamed'*'  while  they  were  lying  in  the 

* “ . Ay,  there’s  the  rub  ; 

For  in  that  sleep  of  death  what  dreams  may  come, 

When  we  have  shuffled  off  this  mortal  coil ” 


ground.  He  is  one  of  the  most  curious  and 
interesting  studies  possible.” 

The  second  case  had  come  in  on  the  very 
day  that  Dickens  visited  the  place.  “ When  I 
was  there  (8th  of  July)  there  had  come  in,  that 
morning,  a girl  of  ten  years  old,  born  deaf  aixl 
dumb  and  blind,  and  so  perfectly  untaught  that 
she  has  not  learnt  to  have  the  least  control  even 
over  the  performance  of  the  common  natural 

functions And  yet  she  laughs  sometimes 

(good  God  ! conceive  what  at  !) — and  is  dread- 
fully sensitive  from  head  to  foot,  and  very  much 
alarmed,  for  some  hours  before  the  coming  on 
of  a thunder  storm.  Mr.  Haldimand  has  been 
long  trying  to  induce  her  parents  to  send  her  to 
the  asylum.  At  last  they  have  consented  ; and 
when  I saw  her,  some  of  the  little  blind  girls 
were  trying  to  make  friends  with  her,  and  to 
lead  her  gently  about.  She  was  dressed  in  just 
a loose  robe  from  the  necessity  of  changing  her 
frequently,  but  had  been  in  a bath,  and  had  had 
her  nails  cut  (which  were  previously  very  long 
and  dirty),  and  was  not  at  all  ill-looking- — quite 
the  reverse ; with  a remarkably  good  and  pretty 
little  mouth,  but  a low  and  undeveloped  head 
of  course.  It  was  pointed  out  to  me,  as  very 
singular,  that  the  moment  she  is  left  alone,  or 
freed  from  anybody’s  touch  (which  is  the  same 
thing  to  her),  she  instantly  crouches  down  with 
her  hands  up  to  her  ears,  in  exactly  the  positioir 
of  a child  before  its  birth ; and  so  remains.  I 
thought  this  such  a strange  coincidence  with 
the  utter  want  of  advancement  in  her  moral 
being,  that  it  made  a great  impression  on  me  ;, 
and  conning  it  over  and  over,  I began  to  think 
that  this  is  surely  the  invariable  action  of 
savages  too,  and  that  I have  seen  it  over  and 
over  again  described  in  books  of  voyages  and 
travels.  Not  having  any  of  these  with  me,  I 
turned  to  Robinson  Crusoe ; and  I find  De  Foe 
says,  describing  the  savages  who  came  on  the 
island  after  Will  Atkins  began  to  change  for  the 
better  and  commanded  under  the  grave  Spaniard 
for  the  common  defence,  ‘ their  posture  was 
generally  sitting  upon  the  ground,  -with  their 
knees  up  towards  their  mouth,  and  the  head 
put  between  the  two  hands,  leaning  down  upon 
the  knees  ’ — exactly  the  same  attitude  ! ” In 
his  next  week’s  letter  he  reported  further ; “ I 
have  not  been  to  the  Blind  Asylum  again  yet, 
but  they  tell  me  tliat  the  deaf  and  dumb  and 
blind  child’s  face  is  improving  obviously,  and 
that  she  takes  great  delight  in  the  first  eftort 
made  by  the  Director  to  connect  himself  with 
an  occupation  of  her  time.  He  gives  her,  every 
day,  two  smooth  round  pebbles  to  roll  over  and 
over  between  her  two  hands.  She  appears  to 


RETREAT  TO  SWITZERLAND. 


have  an  idea  that  it  is  to  lead  to  something ; 
distinctly  recognizes  the  hand  that  gives  them 
to  her,  as  a friendly  and  protecting  one ; and 
sits  for  hours  quite  busy.” 

To  one  part  of  his  thoughtful  suggestion  I 
objected,  and  would  have  attributed  to  a mere 
desire  for  warmtli,  in  her  as  in  the  savage,  what 
he  supposed  to  be  part  of  an  undeveloped  or 
embryo  state  explaining  also  the  absence  of 
sentient  and  moral  being.  To  this  he  replied 
(25th  of  July):  “I  do  not  think  that  there  is 
reason  for  supposing  that  the  savage  attitude 
originates  in  the  desire  of  warmth,  because  all 
naked  savages  inhabit  hot  climates  ; and  their 
instinctive  attitude,  if  it  had  reference  to  heat  or 
cold,  would  probably  be  the  coolest  possible  ; 
like  their  delight  in  water,  and  swimming.  I 
do  not  think  there  is  any  race  of  savage  men, 
however  low  in  grade,  inhabiting  cold  climates, 
who  do  not  kill  beasts  and  wear  their  skins. 
The  girl  decidedly  improves  in  face,  and,  if  one 
can  yet  use  the  word  as  applied  to  her,  in  man- 
ner too.  No  communication  by  the  speech  of 
touch  has  yet  been  established  with  her,  but  the 
time  has  not  been  long  enough.”  In  a later 
letter  he  tells  me  (24th  of  August)  : “ The  deaf, 
dumb,  and  blind  girl  is  decidedly  improved, 
and  very  much  improved,  in  this  short  time. 
No  communication  is  yet  established  with  her, 
but  that  is  not  to  be  expected.  They  have  got 
her  out  of  that  strange,  crouching  position ; 
dressed  her  neatly  ; and  accustomed  her  to  have 
a pleasure  in  society.  She  laughs  frequently, 
and  also  claps  her  hands  and  jumps ; having, 
God  knows  how,  some  inward  satisfaction.  I 
never  saw  a more  tremendous  thing  in  its  way, 
in  my  life,  than  when  they  stood  her,  t’other 
day,  in  the  centre  of  a group  of  blind  children 
who  sang  a chorus  to  the  piano ; and  brought 
her  hand,  and  kept  it,  in  contact  with  the  in- 
strument. A shudder  pervaded  her  whole 
being,  her  breath  quickened,  her  colour  deep- 
ened,— and  I can  compare  it  to  nothing  but 
returning  animation  in  a person  nearly  dead. 
It  was  really  awful  to  see  how  the  sensation  of 
the  music  fluttered  and  stirred  the  locked-up 
soul  within  her.”  The  same  letter  spoke  again 
of  the  youth:  “The  male  subject  is  well  and 
jolly  as  possible.  He  is  very  fond  of  smoking. 
I have  arranged  to  supply  him  with  cigars 
during  our  stay  here ; so  he  and  I are  in  amaz- 
ing sympathy.  I don’t  know  whether  he  thinks 
I grow  them,  or  make  them,  or  produce  them 
by  winking,  or  w-hat.  But  it  gives  him  a notion 
that  the  world  in  general  belongs  to  me.”  .... 
Before  his  kind  friend  left  Lausanne  the  poor 
fellow  had  been  taught  to  say,  “ Monsieur 


193 


Dickens  m’a  donne  les  cigares,”  and  at  their 
leavetaking  his  gratitude  was  expressed  by  in- 
cessant repetition  of  these  words  for  a full  half- 
hour. 

Certainly  by  no  man  was  gratitude  more  per- 
sistently earned  than  by  Dickens,  from  all  to 
whom  nature  or  the  world  had  been  churlish  or 
unfair.  Not  to  those  only  made  desolate  by 
poverty  or  the  temptations  incident  to  it,  but  to 
tliose  whom  natural  defects  or  infirmities  had 
placed  at  a disadvantage  with  their  kind,  he 
gave  his  first  consideration ; helping  them  per- 
sonally where  he  could,  sympathising  and  sor- 
rowing with  them  always,  but  above  all  applying 
himself  to  the  investigation  of  such  alleviation 
or  cure  as  philosophy  or  science  might  be  able 
to  apply  to  their  condition.  This  was  a desire 
so  eager  as  properly  to  be  called  one  of  the 
passions  of  his  life,  visible  in  him  to  the  last 
hour  of  it. 

Only  a couple  of  weeks,  themselves  not  idle 
ones,  had  passed  over  him  at  Roseraont  when 
he  made  a dash  at  the  beginning  of  his  work ; 
from  which  indeed  he  had  only  been  detained 
so  long  by  the  non-arrival  of  a box  despatched 
from  London  before  his  own  departure,  con- 
taining not  his  proper  writing  materials  only, 
but  certain  quaint  little  bronze  figures  that  thus 
early  stood  upon  his  desk,  and  were  as  much 
needed  for  the  easy  flow  of  his  writing  as  blue 
ink  or  quill  pens.  “ I have  not  been  idle  (28th 
of  June)  since  I have  been  here,  though  at  first 
I was  ‘kept  out’  of  the  big  box  as  you  know. 
I had  a good  deal  to  write  for  Lord  John  about 
the  Ragged  Schools.  I set  to  work  and  did 
that.  A good  deal  for  Miss  Coutts,  in  refer- 
ence to  her  charitable  projects.  I set  to  work 
and  did  Dial  Half  of  the  children’s  New 
Testament  to  write,  or  pretty  nearly.  I set  to 
work  and  did  Dial  Next  I cleared  off  the 
greater  part  of  such  correspondence  as  I had 
rashly  pledged  myself  to  ; and  then  .... 

BEG.VN  DO.MBEY! 

I performed  this  feat  yesterday — only  wrote  the 
first  slip — but  there  it  is,  and  it  is  a plunge 

straight  over  head  and  ears  into  the  story 

Besides  all  this,  I have  really  gone  with  great 
vigour  at  the  French,  w'here  I find  myself 
greatly  assisted  by  the  Italian  ; and  am  subject 
to  two  descriptions  of  mental  fits  in  reference 
to  the  Christmas  book : one,  of  the  suddenest 
and  wildest  enthusiasm  ; one,  of  solitary  and 

anxious  consideration By  the  way,  as  I, 

was  unpacking  the  big  box  I took  hold  of  a 
book,  and  said  to  ‘Them,’ — ‘Now,  w’hatever 
passage  my  thumb  rests  on,  I shall  take  as 


194 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


having  reference  to  my  work.’  It  was  Tris- 
tram Shandy,  and  opened  at  these  words, 
‘ What  a work  it  is  likely  to  turn  out ! Let  us 
begin  it ! ”’ 

The  same  letter  told  me  that  he  still  inclined 
strongly  to  “the  field  of  battle  notion  ” for  his 
Christmas  volume,  but  was  not  as  yet  advanced 
in  it;  being  curious  first  to  see  whether  its 
capacity  seemed  to  strike  me  at  all.  My  only 
objection  was  to  his  adventure  of  opening  two 
stories  at  once,  of  which  he  did  not  yet  see  the 
full  danger ; but  for  the  moment  the  Christmas 
firncy  was  laid  aside,  and  not  resumed,  except 
in  passing  allusions,  until  after  the  close  of 
August,  when  the  first  two  numbers  of  Dombey 
were  done.  The  interval  supplied  fresh  illus- 
tration of  his  life  in  his  new  home,  not  without 
much  interest;  and  as  I have  shown  what* a 
pleasant  social  circle,  “ wonderfully  friendly  and 
hospitable  ” to  the  last,  already  had  grouped 
itself  round  him  in  Lausanne,  and  how  full  of 
matter  to  be  heard  and  learn’d  he  found  such 
institutions  as  its  prison  and  blind  school,  the 
picture  will  receive  attractive  touches  if  I bor- 
row from  his  letters  written  during  this  outset 
of  Dombey  some  farther  notices  as  well  of  the 
general  progress  of  his  work,  as  of  what  was 
specially  interesting  or  amusing  to  him  at  the 
time,  and  of  how  the  country  and  the  people 
impressed  him.  In  all  of  these  his  character 
will  be  found  strongly  marked. 


III. 

SWISS  PEOPLE  AND  SCENERY. 
1846. 


jHAT  at  once  had  struck  him  as  the 
wonderful  feature  in  the  mountain 
scenery  was  its  everchanging  and 
yet  unchanging  aspect.  It  was 
never  twice  like  the  same  thing  to 
him.  Shifting  and  altering,  advanc- 
ing and  retreating,  fifty  times  a day,  it 
ji:}  was  unalterable  only  in  its  grandeur.  The 
lake  itself  too  had  every  kind  of  varying 
beauty  for  him.  By  moonlight  it  was  indescrib- 
ably solemn  ; and  before  the  coming  on  of  a 
storm  had  a strange  property  in  it  of  being  dis- 
turbed, while  yet  the  sky  remained  clear  and  the 
evening  bright,  which  he  found  to  be  very  mys- 
terious and  impressive.  Such  a storm  had  come 
among  his  earliest  and  most  grateful  experi- 
ences ; a degree  of  heat  worse  even  than  in  Italy 

* “When  it  is  very  liot,  it  is  hotter  than  in  Italy. 
Ihe  over-hangiii"  root's  of  the  houses,  and  the  quantity 


having  disabled  him  at  the  outset  for  all  exertion 
until  the  lightning,  thunder,  and  rain  arrived. 
The  letter  telling  me  this  (5th  July)  described 
the  fruit  as  so  abundant  in  the  little  farm,  that 
the  trees  of  the  orchard  in  front  of  his  house 
were  bending  beneath  it;  spoke  of  a field  of” 
wheat  sloping  down  to  the  side  window  of  his 
dining-room  as  already  cut  and  carried ; and 
said  that  the  roses,  which  the  hurricane  of  rain 
had  swept  away,  were  come  back  lovelier  and 
in  greater  numbers  than  ever. 

Of  the  ordinary  Swiss  people  he  formed  from 
the  first  a high  opinion  which  everything  during 
his  stay  among  them  confirmed.  He  thought  it 
the  greatest  injustice  to  call  them  “ the  Ame- 
ricans of  the  Continent.”  In  his  first  letters  he 
said  of  the  peasantry  all  about  Lausanne  that 
they  were  as  pleasant  a people  as  need  be.  He 
never  passed,  on  any  of  the  roads,  man,  woman, 
or  child,  without  a salutation  ; and  anything 
churlish  or  disagreeable  he  never  noticed  in 
them.  “ They  have  not,”  he  continued,  “ the 
sweetness  and  grace  of  the  Italians,  or  the  agree- 
able manners  of  the  better  specimens  of  French 
peasantry,  but  they  are  admirably  educated  (the 
schools  of  this  canton  are  extraordinarily  good, 
in  every  little  village),  and  always  prepared  to 
give  a civil  and  pleasant  answer.  There  is  no 
greater  mistake.  I was  talking  to  my  landlord  \ 
about  it  the  other  day,  and  he  said  he  could  not 
conceive  how  it  had  ever  arisen,  but  that  when 
he  returned  from  his  eighteen  years’  service  in 
the  English  navy  he  shunned  the  people,  and 
had  no  interest  in  them  until  they  gradually 
forced  their  real  character  upon  his  observation. 
We  have  a cook  and  a coachman  here,  taken  at 

of  wood  employed  in  their  construction  (where  they  use 
tile  and  brick  in  Italy),  render  them  perfect  forcing- 
houses.  The  walls  and  floors,  hot  to  the  hand  all  the 
night  through,  interfere  with  sleep ; and  thunder  is 
almost  always  booming  and  rumbling  among  the  moun- 
tains.’’ Besides  this,  though  there  were  no  mosquitoes 
as  in  Genoa,  there  was  at  fiist  a plague  of  flics,  more 
distressing  even  than  at  Albaro.  “ They  cover  every- 
thing eatable,  fall  into  everything  drinkable,  stagger  into 
the  wet  ink  of  newly-written  words  and  make  tracks  on 
the  writing  paper,  clog  their  legs  in  the  lather  on  your 
chin  while  you  are  shaving  in  the  morning,  and  drive 
you  frantic  at  any  time  when  there  is  daylight  if  you  fttll 
asleep.” 

t His  preceding  letter  had  sketched  his  landlord  for 

me “There  was  an  annual  child’s  fete  at  the 

.Signal  the  other  night : given  by  the  town.  It  was 
beautiful  to  see  perhaps  a hundred  couple  of  children 
dancing  in  an  immense  ring  in  a green  wood.  Our  three 
eldest  were  among  them,  presided  over  by  my  handlord, 
who  was  18  years  in  the  English  navy,  and  is  the  Sous 
Prefet  of  the  town — a very  good  fellow  indeed  ; ([uite  an 
Englishman.  Our  landlady,  nearly  twice  his  ago,  used 
to  keep  the  Inn  (a  famous  one)  at  Zurich  ; and  having 
made  ^^50,000  bestowed  it  on  a young  husband.  She 
might  have  done  worse.” 


SIV/SS  PEOPLE  AND  SCENERY. 


195 


hazard  from  the  jieople  of  the  town ; and  I 
never  saw  more  obliging  servants,  or  people  who 
did  their  work  so  truly  'u’ith  a will.  And  in 
])oint  of  cleanliness,  order,  and  punctuality  to 

the  moment,  they  are  unrivalled ” 

The  first  great  gathering  of  the  Swiss  peasantry 
which  he  saw  was  in  the  third  week  after  his 
arrival,  when  a country  fete  was  held  at  a place 
called  The  Signal ; a deep  green  wood,  on  the 
sides  and  summit  of  a very  high  hill  overlooking 
the  town  and  all  the  country  round ; and  he 
gave  me  a pleasant  account  of  it.  “ There  were 
various  booths  for  eating  and  drinking,  and  the 
selling  of  trinkets  and  sweetmeats ; and  in  one 
place  there  was  a great  circle  cleared,  in  which 
the  common  people  waltzed  and  polka’d,  with- 
out cessation,  to  the  music  of  a band.  There 
was  a great  roundabout  for  children  (oh  my 
stars  what  a family  were  proprietors  of  it ! A 
sunburnt  father  and  mother,  a hump-backed 
boy,  a great  poodle-dog  possessed  of  all  sorts  of 
accomplishments,  and  a young  murderer  of 
seventeen  who  turned  the  machinery) ; and 
there  were  some  games  of  chance  and  skill 
established  under  trees.  It  was  very  pretty. 
In  some  of  the  drinking  Irooths  there  were 
parties  of  German  peasants,  twenty  together 
perhaps,  singing  national  drinking-songs,  and 
making  a most  exhilarating  and  musical  chorus 
by  rattling  their  cups  and  glasses  on  the  table 
and  clinking  them  against  each  other,  to  a 
regular  tune.  You  know  it  as  a stage  dodge, 
but  the  real  thing  is  splendid.  Farther  down  the 
hill,  other  peasants  were  rifle  shooting  for  prizes, 
at  targets  set  on  the  other  side  of  a deep  ravine, 
from  two  to  three  hundred  yards  off.  It  was 
quite  fearful  to  see  the  astonishing  accuracy  of 
their  aim,  and  how,  every  time  a rifle  awakened 
the  ten  thousand  echoes  of  the  green  glen,  some 
men  crouching  behind  a little  wall  immediately 
in  front  of  the  targets,  sprung  up  with  large 
numbers  in  their  hands  denoting  where  the  ball 
had  struck  the  bull’s  eye — and  then  in  a moment 
disappeared  again.  Standing  in  a ring  near 
these  shooters  was  another  party  of  Germans 
singing  hunting-songs,  in  parts,  most  melodiously. 
And  down  in  the  distance  was  Lausanne,  with 
all  sorts  of  haunted-looking  old  towers  rising 
up  before  the  smooth  water  of  the  lake,  and  an 
evening  sky  all  red,  and  gold,  and  bright  green. 
When  it  closed  in  quite  dark,  all  the  booths 
were  lighted  up ; and  the  twinkling  of  the  lamps 

among  the  forest  of  trees  was  beautiful ” 

To  this  pretty  picture,  a letter  of  a little  later 
date,  describing  a marriage  on  the  farm,  added 
farther  comical  illustration  of  the  rifle-firing  pro- 
pensities of  the  Swiss,  and  had  otherwise  also 


whimsical  touches  of  character.  “ One  of  the 
farmer’s  people — a sister,  I think — was  married 
from  here  the  other  day.  It  is  wonderful  to  see 
how  naturally  the  smallest  girls  are  interested 
in  marriages.  Katey  and  Mamey  were  as  ex- 
cited as  if  they  were  eighteen.  The  fondness 
of  the  Swiss  for  gunpowder  on  interesting  occa- 
sions, is  one  of  the  drollest  things.  For  three 
days  before,  the  farmer  himself,  in  the  midst  of 
his  various  agricultural  duties,  plunged  out  of  a 
little  door  near  my  windows,  about  once  in 
every  hour,  and  fired  off  a rifle.  I thought  he  was 
shooting  rats  who  were  spoiling  the  vines ; but  he 
was  merely  relieving  his  mind,  it  seemed,  on  the 
subject  of  the  approaching  nuptials.  All  night 
afterwards,  he  and  a small  circle  of  friends  kept 
perpetually  letting  off  guns  under  the  casement 
of  Ure  bridal  chamber.  A Bride  is  always  drest 
here  in  black  silk ; but  this  bride  wore  merino 
of  that  colour,  observing  to  her  mother  when 
she  bought  it  (the  old  lady  is  82,  and  works  on 
the  farm),  ‘You  know,  mother,  I am  sure  to 
want  mourning  for  you  soon  ; and  the  same 
gown  will  do.’  ” 

Meanwhile,  day  by  day,  he  was  steadily 
moving  on  with  his  first  number ; feeling  some- 
times the  want  of  streets  in  an  “extraordinary 
nervousness  it  would  be  hardly  possible  to  de- 
scribe,” that  would  come  upon  him  after  he  had 
been  writing  all  day ; but  at  all  other  times 
finding  the  repose  of  the  place  very  favourable 
to  industry.  “ I am  writing  slowly  at  first,  of 
course”  (5th  of  July),  “but  I hope  I shall  have 
finished  the  first  number  in  the  course  of  a fort- 
night at  farthest.  I have  done  the  first  chapter 
and  begun  another.  I say  nothing  of  the  merits 
thus  far,  or  of  the  idea  beyond  what  is  known  to 
you ; because  I prefer  that  you  should  come  as 
fresh  as  may  be  upon  them.  I shall  certainly 
have  a great  surprise  for  people  at  the  end  of 
the  fourth  number ; and  I think  there  is  a new 
and  peculiar  sort  of  interest,  involving  the  neces- 
sity of  a little  bit  of  delicate  treatment  whereof 
I will  expound  my  idea  to  you  by  and  by. 
When  I have  done  this  number,  I may  take  a 

run  to  Chamounix  perhaps My  thoughts 

have  necessarily  been  called  away  from  the 
Christmas  book.  The  first  Donibey  done,  I 
think  I should  fly  off  to  that,  whenever  the  idea 
presented  itself  vividly  before  me.  I still 
cherish  the  Battle  fancy,  though  it  is  nothing 
but  a fancy  as  yet.”  A week  later  he  told  me 
that  he  hoped  to  finish  the  first  number  by  that 
day  week  or  thereabouts,  when  he  should  then 
run  and  look  for  his  Christmas  book  in  the 
glaciers  at  Chamounix.  His  progress  to  this 
point  had  been  pleasing  him.  “ I think  Dombey 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


1 96 


very  strong — with  great  capacity  in  its  leading 
idea ; plenty  of  character  that  is  likely  to  tell ; 
and  some  rollicking  facetiousness,  to  say  nothing 
of  pathos.  I hope  you  will  soon  judge  of  it  for 
yourself,  however;  and  I know  you  will  say 
what  you  think.  I have  been  very  constantly 
at  work.”  Six  days  later  I heard  that  he  had 
still  eight  slips  to  write,  and  for  a week  had  put 
■oft'  Chamounix. 

But  though  the  fourth  chapter  yet  was  incom- 
plete, he  could  repress  no  longer  the  desire  to 
write  to  me  of  what  he  was  doing  (i8th  of  July). 
“ I think  the  general  idea  of  Dotnbey  is  interest- 
ing and  new,  and  has  great  material  in  it.  But 
I don’t  like  to  discuss  it  with  you  till  you  have 
read  number  one,  for  fear  I should  spoil  its 
effect.  When  done  — about  Wednesday  or 
Thursday,  please  God — I will  send  it  in  two 
days’  posts,  seven  letters  each  day.  If  you  have 
it  set  at  once  (I  am  afraid  you  couldn’t  read  it, 
otherwise  than  in  print)  I know  you  will  impress 
on  B.  & E.  the  necessity  of  the  closest  secrecy. 
The  very  name  getting  out,  would  be  ruinous. 
The  points  for  illustration,  and  the  enormous 
care  required,  make  me  excessively  anxious. 
The  man  for  Dombey,  if  Browne  could  see  him, 
the  class  man  to  a T,  is  Sir  A — E— , ofT) — ’s. 
Great  pains  will  be  necessary  with  Miss  Tox. 
The  Toodle  family  should  not  be  too  much 
caricatured,  because  of  Polly.  I should  like 
Browne  to  think  of  Susan  Nipper,  who  will  not 
be  wanted  in  the  first  number.  After  the  second 
number,  they  will  all  be  nine  or  ten  years  older  ; 
but  this  will  not  involve  much  change  in  the 
characters,  except  in  the  children  and  Miss 
Nipper.  What  a brilliant  thing  to  be  telling 
you  all  these  names  so  familiarly,  when  you 
know  nothing  about  ’em  ! I quite  enjoy  it.  By 
the  bye,  I hope  you  may  like  the  introduction 
of  Solomon  Gills.  I think  he  lives  in  a good 

sort  of  house One  word  more.  ^Vhat 

do  you  think,  as  a name  for  the  Christmas  book, 
of  The  Battle  of  Life  ? It  is  not  a name  I 
have  conned  at  all,  but  has  just  occurred  to  me 
in  connection  with  that  foggy  idea.  If  I can 
see  my  way,  I think  I will  take  it  next,  and  clear 
it  off.  If  you  knew  how  it  hangs  about  me,  I 
am  sure  you  would  say  so  too.  It  would  be  an 
immense  relief  to  have  it  done,  and  nothing 
standing  in  the  way  of  Dombey.” 

Within  the  time  left  for  it  the  opening  number 
was  done,  but  two  little  incidents  preceded  still 
the  trip  to  Chamounix.  The  first  was  a visit 
from  Hallam  to  Mr.  Haldimand.  “ Heavens  ! 
how  Hallam  did  talk  yesterday  ! I don’t  think  I 
ever  saw  him  so  tremendous.  "Very  good- 
natured  and  pleasant,  in  his  way,  but  Good 


Heavens  ! how  he  did  talk.  That  famous  day 
you  and  I remember  was  nothing  to  it.  His 
son  was  with  him,  and  his  daughter  (who  has  an 
impediment  in  her  speech,  as  if  nature  were  de- 
termined to  balance  that  faculty  in  the  family), 
and  his  niece,  a pretty  woman,  the  wife  of  a 
clergyman  and  a friend  of  Thackeray’s.  It 
strikes  me  that  she  must  be  ‘ the  little  woman  ’ 
he  proposed  to  take  us  to  drink  tea  with,  once, 
in  Golden-square.  Don’t  you  remember  ? His 
great  favourite  ? She  is  quite  a charming  person 
anyhow.”  I hope  to  be  pardoned  for  pre- 
serving an  opinion  which  more  familiar  later 
acquaintance  confirmed,  and  which  can  hardly 
now  give  anything  but  pleasure  to  the  lady  of 
whom  it  is  expressed.  To  the  second  incident 
he  alludes  more  briefly.  “ As  Haldimand  and 
Mrs.  Marcet  and  the  Cerjats  had  devised  a small 
mountain  expedition  for  us  for  to-morrow,  I 
didn’t  like  to  allow  Chamounix  to  stand  in  the 
way.  So  we  go  with  them  first,  and  start  on 
our  own  account  on  Tuesday.  We  are  extremely 
pleasant  with  these  people.”  The  close  of  the 
same  letter  (25th  of  July),  mentioning  two  pieces 
of  local  news,  gives  intimation  of  the  dangers 
incident  to  all  Swiss  travelling,  and  of  such 
special  precautions  as  were  necessary  for  the 
holiday  among  the  mountains  he  was  now  about 
to  take.  “ My  first  news  is  that  a crocodile  is 
said  to  have  escaped  from  the  Zoological  gardens 
at  Geneva,  and  to  be  now  ‘ zigzag-zigging  ’ about 
the  lake.  But  I can’t  make  out  whether  this  is 
a great  fact,  or  whether  it  is  a pious  fraud  to 
prevent  too  much  bathing  and  liability  to  acci- 
dents. The  other  piece  of  news  is  more  serious. 
An  English  family  whose  name  I don’t  know, 
consisting  of  a father,  mother,  and  daughter, 
arrived  at  the  hotel  Gibbon  here  last  Monday, 
and  started  off  on  some  mountain  expedition  in 
one  of  the  carriages  of  the  country.  It  was  a 
mere  track,  the  road,  and  ought  to  have  been 
travelled  only  by  mules,  but  the  Englishman 
persisted  (as  Englishmen  do)  in  going  on  in  the 
carriage ; and  in  answer  to  all  the  representa- 
tions of  the  driver  that  no  carriage  had  ever  gone 
up  there,  said  he  needn’t  be  afraid  he  wasn’t 
going  to  be  paid  for  it,  and  so  forth.  Ac- 
cordingly, the  coachman  got  down  and  walked 
by  the  horses’  heads.  It  was  fiery  hot ; and, 
after  much  tugging  and  rearing,  the  horses  began 
to  back,  and  went  down  bodily,  carriage  and 
all,  into  a deep  ravine.  The  mother  was  killed 
on  the  spot;  and  the  father  and  daughter  are 
lying  at  some  house  hard  by,  not  expected  to 
recover.” 

His  next  letter  (written  on  the  second  of 
August)  described  his  own  first  real  experience 


SJJ'VSS  PEOPLE  AND  SCENERY. 


197 


i of  mountain-travel.  “■  I begin  my  letter  to-night, 
but  only  begin,  for  we  returned  from  Chamounix 
in  time  for  dinner  just  now,  and  are  pretty  con- 
siderably done  up.  We  went  by  a mountain 
jiass  not  often  crossed  by  Lillies,  called  the  Col 
de  Balme,  where  your  imagination  may  picture 
Kate  and  Georgy  on  mules  for  ten  hours  at  a 
stretch  riding  up  and  down  the  most  frightful 
precipices,  ^^'e  returned  by  the  pass  of  the 
I'ete  Noire,  which  Talfourd  knows,  and  which  is 
of  a difterent  character,  but  astonishingly  fine 
j too.  Mont  Blanc,  and  the  Valley  of  Chamounix, 
and  the  Mer  de  Glace,  and  all  the  wonders  of 
I that  most  wonderful  place,  are  above  and  beyond 
I one’s  wildest  expectations.  I cannot  imagine 
I anything  in  nature  more  stupendous  or  sublime. 

' If  1 were  to  write  about  it  now,  I should  quite 
1 rave — such  prodigious  impressions  are  rampant 

I within  me You  may  suppose  that  the 

' I mule-travelling  is  pretty  primitive.  Each  person 
I I takes  a carpet-bag  strapped  on  the  mule  behind 
himself  or  herself : and  that  is  all  the  baggage 
that  can  be  carried.  A guide,  a thorough-bred 
mountaineer,  walks  all  the  way,  leading  the 
lady’s  mule ; I say  the  lady’s  par  excellence,  in 
■compliment  to  Kate ; and  all  the  rest  struggle 
•on  as  they  please.  The  cavalcade  stops  at  a 
I lone  hut  for  an  hour  and  a half  in  the  middle  of 
the  day,  and  lunches  brilliantly  on  whatever  it 
I can  get.  Going  by  that  Col  de  Balme  pass  you 
climb  up  and  up  and  up  for  five  hours  and  more, 

I and  look — from  a mere  unguarded  ledge  of  path 
' on  the  side  of  the  precipice — into  such  awful 
: valleys,  that  at  last  you  are  firm  in  the  belief 
that  you  have  got  above  everything  in  the  world, 
and  that  there  can  be  nothing  earthly  overhead. 
Just  as  you  arrive  at  this  conclusion,  a different 
(and  oh  Heaven  ! what  a free  and  wonderful) 
air  comes  blowing  on  your  face ; you  cross  a 
ridge  of  snow;  and  lying  before  you  (wholly 
unseen  till  then),  towering  up  into  the  distant 
sky,  is  the  vast  range  of  Mont  Blanc,  with 
attendant  mountains  diminished  by  its  majestic 
side  into  mere  dwarfs  tapering  up  into  innume* 
rable  rude  Gothic  pinnacles  ; deserts  of  ice  and 
snow ; forests  of  firs  on  mountain  sides,  of  no 
account  at  all  in  the  enormous  scene ; villages 
down  in  the  hollow,  that  you  can  shut  out  with 
a finger;  waterfalls,  avalanches,  pyramids  and 
towers  of  ice,  torrents,  bridges ; mountain  upon 
mountain  until  the  very  sky  is  blocked  away, 
and  you  must  look  up,  overhead,  to  see  it. 
Good  God,  what  a country  Switzerland  is,  and 
what  a concentration  of  it  is  to  be  beheld  from 
that  one  spot  1 And  (think  of  this  in  White- 
friars  and  in  Lincoln’s-inn !)  at  noon  on  the 
j second  day  from  here,  the  first  day  being  but 
j . Life  of  Ch.vrles  Dickens,  14. 


half  a one  by  the  bye  and  full  of  uncommon 
beauty,  you  lie  down  on  that  ridge  and  see  it 
all ! ....  1 think  I must  go  back  again 
(whether  you  come  or  not !)  and  see  it  again 
before  the  bad  weather  arrives.  We  have  had 
sunlight,  moonlight,  a perfectly  transparent  at- 
mosphere with  not  a cloud,  and  the  grand 
plateau  on  the  very  summit  of  Mont  Blanc  so 
clear  by  day  and  night  that  it  was  difficult  to 
believe  in  intervening  chasms  and  precipices, 
and  almost  impossible  to  resist  the  idea  that  one 
might  sally  forth  and  climb  up  easily.  I went 
into  all  sorts  of  places ; armed  with  a great  pole 
with  a spike  at  the  end  of  it,  like  a leaping-pole, 
and  with  pointed  irons  buckled  on  to  my  shoes  ; 
and  am  all  but  knocked  up.  I was  very  anxious 
to  make  the  expedition  to  what  is  called  ‘ The 
Garden : ’ a green  spot  covered  with  wild  flowers, 
lying  across  the  Mer  de  Glace,  and  among  the 
most  awful  mountains ; but  I could  find  no 
Englishman  at  the  hotels  who  was  similarly  dis- 
posed, and  the  Brave  wouldn't  go.  No  sir  ! He 
gave  in  point  blank  (having  been  horribly  blown 
in  a climbing  excursion  the  day  before),  and 
couldn’t  stand  it.  He  is  too  heavy  for  such 
work,  unquestionably.  In  all  other  respects,  I 
think  he  has  exceeded  himself  on  this  journey: 
and  if  you  could  have  seen  him  riding  a very 
small  mule  up  a road  exactly  like  the  broken 
stairs  of  Rochester-castle,  with  a brandy  bottle 
slung  over  his  shoulder,  a small  pie  in  his  hat,  a 
roast  fowl  looking  out  of  his  pocket,  and  a moun- 
tain staff  of  six  feet  long  carried  crosswise  on 
the  saddle  before  him,  you’d  have  said  so.  He 
was  (next  to  me)  the  admiration  of  Chamounix, 
but  he  utterly  quenched  me  on  the  road.” 

On  the  road  as  they  returned  there  had  been 
a.  small  adventure,  the  day  before  this  letter  was 
written.  Dickens  was  jingling  slowly  up  the 
Tete  Noire  pass  (his  mule  having  thirty-seven 
bells  on  its  head),  riding  at  the  moment  quite 
alone,  when — “an  Englishman  came  bolting  out 
of  a little  chalet  in  a most  inaccessible  and 
extraordinary  place,  and  said  with  great  glee 
‘ There  has  been  an  accident  here,  sir  ! ’ I had 
been  thinking  of  anything  else  you  please  ! and, 
having  no  reason  to  suppose  him  an  Englishman 
except  his  language,  which  went  for  nothing  in 
the  confusion,  stammered  out  a reply  in  French 
and  stared  at  him,  in  a very  damp  shirt  and 
trowsers,  as  he  stared  at  me  in  a similar  costume. 
On  his  repeating  the  announcement  I began  to 
have  a glimmering  of  common  sense  ; and  so 
arrived  at  a knowledge  of  the  fact  that  a German 
lady  had  been  thrown  from  her  mule  and  had 
broken  her  leg,  at  a short  distance  off,  and  had 
found  her  way  in  great  pain  to  that  cottage, 

422 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICICENS. 


198 


where  the  Englishman,  a Prussian,  and  a French- 
man, had  presently  come  up ; and  the  French- 
man, by  extraordinary  good  fortune,  was  a 
surgeon  ! They  were  all  from  Chamounix,  and 
the  three  latter  were  walking  in  company.  It 
was  quite  charming  to  see  how  attentive  they 
were.  The  lady  was  from  Lausanne;  where  she 
had  come  from  Frankfort  to  make  excursions 
with  her  two  boys,  who  are  at  the  college 
here,  during  the  vacation.  She  had  no  other 
attendants,  and  the  boys  were  crying  and  very 
frightened.  The  Englishman  was  in  the  full 
glee  of  having  just  cut  up  one  white  dress,  two 
chemises,  and  three  pocket  handkerchiefs,  for 
bandages ; the  Frenchman  had  set  the  leg, 
skilfully ; the  Prussian  had  scoured  a neigh- 
bouring wood  for  some  men  to  carry  her  for- 
ward ; and  they  were  all  at  it,  behind  the  hut, 
making  a sort  of  hand-barrow  on  which  to  bear 
her.  When  it  was  constructed,  she  was  strapped 
upon  it;  had  her  poor  head  covered  over  with  a 
handkerchief,  and  was  carried  away ; and  we  all 
went  on  in  company : Kate  and  Georgy  con- 
soling and  tending  the  sufferer,  who  was  very 
cheerful,  but  had  lost  her  husband  only  a year.” 
With  the  same  delightful  observation,  and  miss- 
ing no  touch  of  kindly  character  that  might  give 
each  actor  his  place  in  the  little  scene,  the  sequel 
is  described ; but  it  does  not  need  to  add  more. 
It  was  hoped  that  by  means  of  relays  of  men  at 
j Martigny  the  poor  lady  might  have  been  carried 
on  some  twenty  miles,  in  the  cooler  evening,  to 
the  head  of  the  lake,  and  so  have  been  got  into 
the  steamer ; but  she  was  too  exhausted  to  be 
borne  beyond  the  inn,  and  there  she  had  to 
remain  until  joined  by  relatives  from  Frankfort. 

A few  days’  rest  after  his  return  were  inter- 
posed, before  he  began  his  second  number ; and 
until  the  latter  had  been  completed,  and  the 
Christmas  story  taken  in  hand,  I do  not  admit 
the  reader  to  his  full  confidence  about  his  writ- 
ing. But  there  were  other  subjects  that  amused 
and  engaged  him  up  to  that  date,  as  well  when 
he  was  idle  as  when  again  he  was  at  work,  to 
which  expression  so  full  of  character  is  given  in 
his  letters  that  they  properly  find  mention  here. 

Early  in  August  he  visited  Chillon,  when  the 
aspect  of  the  lake,  five  minutes  after  sunset,  the 
sky  at  the  time  being  covered  with  sullen  black 
clouds  reflected  in  the  deep  water,  much  im- 
pressed him.  The  Castle  itself  he  thought  the 
best  deserving  and  least  exaggerated  in  its  re- 
pute, of  all  the  places  he  had  seen.  “ 'I'he  in- 
supportable solitude  and  dreariness  of  the  white 
walls  and  towers,  the  sluggish  moat  and  draw- 
bridge, and  the  lonely  ramparts,  I never  saw 
the  like  of.  But  there  is  a courtyard  inside ; 


surrounded  by  prisons,  oubliettes,  and  old 
chambers  of  torture ; so  terrifically  sad,  that 
death  itself  is  not  more  sorrowful.  And  oh  ! a 
wicked  old  Grand  Duke’s  bedchamber  upstairs 
in  the  tower,  with  a secret  staircase  down  into 
the  chapel  where  the  bats  were  wheeling  about ; 
and  Bonnivard’s  dungeon ; and  a horrible  trap 
whence  prisoners  were  cast  out  into  the  lake ; 
and  a stake  all  burnt  and  crackled  up,  that  still 
stands  in  the  torture-ante-chamber  to  the  saloon 
of  justice  (!) — what  tremendous  places!  Good 
God,  the  greatest  mystery  in  all  the  earth,  to 
me,  is  how  or  why  the  world  was  tolerated  by 
its  Creator  through  the  good  old  times,  and 
wasn’t  dashed  to  fragments.” 

On  the  ninth  of  August  he  wrote  to  me  that 
there  was  to  be  a prodigious  fete  that  day  in 
Lausanne,  in  honour  of  the  first  anniversary  of 
the  proclamation  of  the  New  Constitution  : “ be- 
ginning at  sunrise  with  the  firing  of  great  guns, 
and  twice  two  thousand  rounds  of  riiles  by  two 
thousand  men;  proceeding  at  eleven  o’clock 
with  a great  service,  and  some  speechifying,  in 
the  church  ; and  ending  to-night  with  a great 
ball  in  the  public  promenade,  and  a general  illu- 
mination of  the  town.”  The  authorities  had 
invited  him  to  a place  of  honour  in  the  cere- 
mony ; and  though  he  did  not  go  (“  having  been 
up  till  three  o’clock  in  the  morning,  and  being 
fast  asleep  at  the  appointed  time”),  the  reply 
that  sent  his  thanks  expressed  also  his  sympath)-. 
He  was  the  readier  with  this  from  having  dis- 
covered in  the  “ old  ” or  “ gentlemanly  ” party 
of  the  place  (“  including  of  course  the  sprinkling 
of  English  who  are  always  tory,  hang  ’em  ! ”),  so 
wonderfully  sore  a feeling  about  the  revolution 
thus  celebrated,  that  to  avoid  its  fete  the  ma- 
jority had  gone  off  by  steamer  the  day  before,, 
and  those  who  remained  were  prophesying 
assaults  on  the  unilluminated  houses,  and  other 
excesses.  Dickens  had  no  faith  in  such  pre- 
dictions. “ The  people  are  as  perfectly  good- 
tempered  and  quiet  always,  as  people  can  be. 
i don’t  know  what  the  last  Government  may  have 
been,  but  they  seem  to  me  to  do  very  well  with 
this,  and  to  be  rationally  and  cheaply  provided 
for.  If  you  believe  what  the  discontented  assert, 
you  wouldn’t  believe  in  one  solitary  man  or  wo- 
man with  a grain  of  goodness  or  civility.  I find 
nothing  hut  civility;  and  I walk  about  in  all 
sorts  of  out-of-the-way  places,  where  they  live 
rough  lives  enough,  in  solita,ry  cottages.”  'I  he 
issue  was  told  in  two  postscripts  to  his  letter, 
and  showed  him  to  be  so  far  right.  “ B.S. 
6 o’clock  afternoon.  The  fete  going  on,  in  great 
force.  Not  one  of  ‘the  okl  ])arty’  to  be  seen. 
I went  down  with  one  to  the  ground  before 


SKETCHES  CHI  EEL  V PERSONAL. 


199 


[ dinner,  anrl  nothing  would  induce  him  to  go 
within  the  barrier  with  me.  Yet  what  they  call 
a revolution  was  nothing  but  a change  of  govern- 
ment. Thirty-si.x  thousand  people,  in  this  small 
canton,  petitioned  against  the  Jesuits — God 
knows  with  good  reason.  'I'hc  Government 
chose  to  call  them  ‘ a mob.’  So,  to  prove  that 
they  were  not,  they  turned  the  Government  out. 
I honour  them  for  it.  They  are  a genuine 
people,  these  Swiss.  There  is  better  metal  in 
them  than  in  all  the  stars  and  stripes  of  all  the 
fustian  banners  of  the  so-called,  and  falsely- 
called,  U-nited  States.  They  are  a thorn  in  the 
sides  of  European  despots,  and  a good  whole- 
some people  to  live  near  Jesuit-ridden  Kings  on 
the  brighter  side  of  the  mountains.”  “ P.P.S. 

August  loth The  fete  went  off  as  quietly 

as  I supposed  it  would  ; and  they  danced  all 
night.” 

These  views  had  forcible  illustration  in  a sub- 
sequent letter,  where  he  describes  a similar  revo- 
; lution  that  occurred  at  Geneva  before  he  left  the 
country ; and  irothing  could  better  show  his 
practical  good  sense  in  a matter  of  this  kind. 
The  description  will  be  given  shortly ; and 
meanwhile  I subjoin  a comment  made  by  him, 
not  less  worthy  of  attention,  upon  my  reply  to 
his  account  of  the  anti-Jesuit  celebration  at 
Lausanne.  “I  don’t  know  whether  I have  men- 
tioned before,  that  in  the  valley  of  the  Simplon 
hard  by  here,  where  (at  the  bridge  of  St.  Mau- 
rice, over  the  Rhone)  this  Protestant  canton 
ends  and  a Catholic  canton  begins,  you  might 
separate  two  perfectly  distinct  and  different  con- 
ditions of  humanity  by  drawing  a line  with  your 
stick  in  the  dust  on  the  ground.  On  the  Pro- 
testant side,  neatness ; cheerfulness ; industry ; 
education ; continual  aspiration,  at  least,  after 
better  things.  On  the  Catholic  side,  dirt,  dis- 
ease, ignorance,  squalor,  and  misery.  I have  so 
constantly  observed  the  like  of  this,  since  I first 
came  abroad,  that  I have  a sad  misgiving  that 
the  religion  of  Ireland  lies  as  deep  at  the  root  of 
all  its  sorrows,  even  as  English  misgovernment 
and  Tory  villany.”  Almost  the  counterpart  of 
this  remark  is  to  be  found  in  one  of  the  later 
writings  of  Macaulay. 


IV. 

SKETCHES  CHIEFLY  PERSONAL. 

1846. 

SOME  sketches  from  the  life  in  his  pleasantest 
vein  now  claim  to  be  taken  from  the  same 
series  of  letters;  and  I will  y refix  one  or  two  | 


less  important  notices,  for  the  most  part  per- 
sonal also,  that  have  characteristic  mention  of 
his  opinions  in  them.  j 

Home-politics  he  criticized,  in  what  he  j 
wrote  on  the  24th  of  August,  much  in  the  spirit 
of  his  last  excellent  remark  on  the  Protestant 
and  Catholic  cantons ; having  no  sympathy 
with  the  course  taken  by  the  whigs  in  regard  to 
Ireland  after  they  had  defeated  Peel  on  his 
coercion  bill  and  resumed  the  government. 

“ I am  perfectly  appalled  by  the  hesitation  and 
cowardice  of  the  whigs.  To  bring  in  that  arms 
bill,  bear  the  brunt  of  the  attack  upon  it,  take 
out  the  obnoxious  clauses,  still  retain  the  bill, 
and  finally  withdraw  it,  seems  to  me  the  mean- 
est and  most  halting  way  of  going  to  work  that 
ever  was  taken.  I cannot  believe  in  them. 
Lord  John  must  be  helpless  among  them. 
They  seem  somehow  or  other  never  to  know 
what  cards  they  hold  in  their  hands,  and  to  [ 
play  them  out  blindfold.  The  contrast  with 
Peel  (as  he  was  last)  is,  I agree  with  you,  cer- 
tainly not  favourable.  I don’t  believe  now 
they  ever  would  have  carried  the  repeal  of  the 
corn  law,  if  they  could.”  Referring  in  the  same 
letter  to  the  reluctance  of  public  men  of  all 
parties  to  give  the  needful  help  to  schemes  of 
emigration,  he  ascribed  it  to  a secret  belief  in 
“ the  gentle  politico-economical  principle  that  a 
surplus  population  must  and  ought  to  starve 
in  which,  for  himself,  he  never  could  see  any- 
thing but  disaster  for  all  who  trusted  to  it.  “ I 
am  convinced  that  its  philosophers  would  sink 
any  government,  any  cause,  any  doctrine,  even 
the  most  righteous.  There  is  a sense  and 
humanity  in  the  mass,  in  the  long  run,  that  will 
not  bear  them ; and  they  will  wreck  their 
friends  always,  as  they  wrecked  them  in  the 
working  of  the  Poor-law  bill.  Not  all  the 
figures  that  Babbage’s  calculating  machine 
could  turn  up  in  twenty  generations,  would 
stand  in  the  long  run  against  the  general 
heart.” 

Of  other  topics  in  his  letters,  one  or  two 
have  the  additional  attractiveness  derivable 
from  touches  of  personal  interest  when  these 
may  with  propriety  be  printed.  “ I am  very 

* Where  he  makes  remark  also  on  a class  of  offences 
which  are  still  most  inadequately  punished;  “I  hope 
you  will  follow  up  your  idea  about  the  defective  state  of 
the  law  in  reference  to  women,  by  some  remarks  on  the 
inadequate  punishment  of  that  ruffian  flippantly  called  by 
the  liners  the  Wholesale  Matrimonial  Speculator.  My 
opinion  is,  that  in  any  well-ordered  state  of  societ}',  and 
advanced  spiiit  of  social  jurisprudence,  he  would  have 
been  flogged  more  than  once  (privately),  and  certainly 
sentenced  to  transportation  for  no  less  a term  than  the  , 
rest  of  his  life.  Surely  the  man  who  threw  the  woman  j 
out  of  window  was  no  worse,  if  so  bad.”  | 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DLCKENS. 


sorry  to  hear  of  Haydon’s  death.  If  any  sub- 
scription be  proposed,  put  me  down  for  five 
pounds.”  An  unfortunate  son  of  Leigh  Hunt 
died  also  just  at  this  time,  and  I preserve  the 
allusion  to  him  for  the  opportunity  of  explaining 
it.  “ I quite  shuddered  at  John  Hunt’s  having 
applied  to  that  generous  duke.  It  went  against 
the  grain  with  me,  sorely,  after  the  story  of  the 
two  hundred  pounds.  I don’t  know  what  I 
should  have  done,  if  I had  been  Hunt.”  The 
duke  was  the  late  Duke  of  Devonshire;  and 
the  story  was  this.  During  the  delay  of  the 
promised  production  of  Leigh  Hunt's  first  play, 
he  asked  the  duke  for  ^^200  as  a loan  for  two 
years ; and  the  duke  replied  by  taking  the 
money  himself  to  Hunt’s  house  in  Edwardes’ 
Square.  On  the  last  day  of  the  second  year 
■within  which  repayment  was  promised.  Hunt 
sent  back  the  ■,  and  was  startled,  the 
morning  after,  by  another  visit  from  the  duke, 
who  pressed  upon  him  its  reacceptance  as  a 
gift.  He  added  that  there  would  be  no  obliga- 
tion, for  he  was  himself  Hunt’s  debtor.  He 
was  ill  when  asked  for  the  loan,  and  it  had 
done  him  good  to  comply  with  the  request. 
Never  but  once  before  had  borrowed  money 
ever  come  back  to  him,  and  he  should  always 
retain  the  sense  of  pleasure  which  its  return 
had  occasioned.  “ lie  remained  grateful.”  It 
is  a charming  story,  and  hard  to  say  who  shows 
in  it  to  the  greatest  advantage.  Hunt  or  the  duke. 

The  letter  goes  on  to  speak  of  Hood.  “ I 
have  been  reading  poor  Hood’s  Tylney  LLall : 
the  most  extraordinary  jumble  of  impossible  e.x- 
travagance,  and  especial  cleverness,  I ever  saw. 
The  man  drawn  to  the  life  from  the  pirate  book- 
seller, is  w'onderfully  good ; and  his  recommen- 
dation to  a reduced  gentleman  from  the  uni- 
versity, to  rise  from  nothing  as  he,  the  pirate, 
did,  and  go  round  to  the  churches  and  see 
whether  there’s  an  opening,  and  begin  by  being 
a beadle,  is  one  of  the  finest  things  1 ever  read, 
in  its  way.”  The  same  letter  has  a gentle  little 
trait  of  the  great  duke,  touching  in  its  simplicity, 
and  worth  preserving.  “ I had  a letter  from 
Tagart  the  day  before  yesterday,  with  a curious 
little  anecdote  of  the  Duke  of  Wellington  in  it. 
d’hey  have  had  a small  cottage  at  Walmer ; and 
one  day — the  other  day  only — the  old  man 
met  their  little  daughter  Lucy,  a child  about 
Mamey’s  age,  near  the  garden ; and  having 
kissed  her,  and  asked  her  what  was  her  name, 
and  who  and  what  her  parents  were,  tied  a 
small  silver  medal  round  her  neck  with  a bit  of 
pink  ribbon,  and  asked  the  child  to  keep  it  in 
' remembrance  of  him.  There  is  something 
I good,  and  aged,  and  odd  in  it.  Is  there  not?” 


Another  of  his  personal  references  was  to 
Lord  Grey,  to  M'hose  style  of  speaking  and 
general  character  of  mind  he  had  always  a 
strongly-expressed  dislike,  drawn  not  impar- 
tially or  quite  justly  from  the  days  of  reaction 
that  followed  the  reform  debates,  when  the 
whig  leader’s  least  attractive  traits  were  pre- 
sented to  the  young  reporter.  “ He  is  a A-ery 
intelligent  agreeable  fellow,  the  said  AVatson  by 
the  bye  ” (he  is  speaking  of  the  member  of  the 
Lausanne  circle  with  whom  he  established 
friendliest  after-intercourse) ; “he  sat  for  North- 
amptonshire in  the  reform  bill  time,  and  is  high 
sheriff  of  his  county  and  all  the  rest  of  it ; but 
has  not  the  least  nonsense  about  him,  and  is  a 
thorough  good  liberal.  He  has  a charming 
wife,  who  draws  well,  and  is  making  a sketch  of 
Rosemont  for  us  that  shall  be  you  is  in  Paris.” 
(It  is  already,  ante,  190,  by  permission  of  its 
present  possessor,  the  reader’s,  and  all  the 
world’s  who  may  take  interest  in  the  little  doll’s 
house  of  Lausanne  which  lodged  so  illustrious  a 
tenant.)  “ He  was  giving  me  some  good  recol- 
lections of  Lord  Grey  the  other  evening  when 
we  were  playing  at  battledore  (old  Lord  Grey 
I mean),  and  of  the  constitutional  impossibility 
he  and  Lord  Lansdowne  and  the  rest  laboured 
under,  of  ever  personally  attaching  a single 
young  man,  in  all  the  excitement  of  that  excit- 
ing time,  to  the  leaders  of  the  party.  It  was 
quite  a delight  to  me,  as  I listened,  to  recall  my 

own  dislike  of  his  style  of  speaking The 

shape  of  his  head  (I  see  it  now)  was  misery  to 
me,  and  weighed  down  my  youth ” 

It  was  now  the  opening  of  the  second  week  in 
August ; and  before  he  finally  addressed  himself 
to  the  second  number  of  Dombcy,  he  had  again 
turned  a lingering  look  in  the  direction  of  his 
Ghristmas  tale.  “ It  would  be  such  a great 
relief  to  me  to  get  that  small  story  out  of  the 
way.”  AVisely,  however,  again  he  refrained,  and 
went  on  with  Doinbey ; at  which  he  had  been 
working  for  a little  time  when  he  described  to 
me  (24th  of  August)  a visit  from  two  English 
travellers,  of  one  of  whom  with  the  slightest  pos- 
sible touch  he  gives  a speaking  likeness. 

“Not  having  your  letter  as  usual,  I sat  down 
to  write  to  you  on  speculation  yesterday,  but 
lapsed  in  my  uncertainly  into  Dombcy,  and 
worked  at  it  all  day.  It  was,  as  it  has  been 
since  last  Tuesday  morning,  incessantly  raining 
regular  mountain  rain.  Alter  dinner,  at  a little 
after  seven  o’clock,  1 was  walking  iqi  and  down 
under  the  little  colonnade  in  the  garden,  racking 
my  brain  about  Dombcys  and  Battles  of  Lives, 
when  two  travel-stained-looking  men  approacheil, 
of  whom  one,  in  a very  limj)  and  melancholy 


SA'E  TCIIES  CHI  EEL  V PEESONAI.  2 0 1 

straw  hat,  ducked  perpetually  to  me  as  he  came 
j up  the  walk.  I couldn’t  make  them  out  at  all  ; 

1 and  it  wasn’t  till  I got  close  up  to  them  that  I 
recognised  A.  and  (in  the  straw  hat)  N.  They 
had  come  from  Geneva  by  the  steamer,  and 
taken  a scrambling  dinner  on  board.  I gave 
them  some  fine  Rhine  wine,  and  cigars  innu- 
merable. A.  enjoyed  himself  and  was  quite  at 
home.  N.  (an  odd  companion  for  a man  of 
genius)  was  snobbish,  but  pleased  and  good- 
natured.  A.  had  a five  pound  note  in  his  pocket 
which  he  had  worn  down,  by  careless  carrying 
about,  to  some  two-thirds  of  its  original  size,  and 
which  was  so  ragged  in  its  remains  that  when 
he  took  it  out  bits  of  it  flew  about  the  table. 

‘ Oh  Lor  you  know — now  really — like  Goldsmith 
you  know — or  any  of  those  great  men  ! ’ said  N., 
with  the  very  ‘ snatches  in  his  voice  and  burst  of 
speaking’  that  reminded  Leigh  Hunt  of  Cloten. 
....  The  clouds  were  lying,  as  they  do  in 
such  weather  here,  on  the  earth,  and  our  friends 
saw  no  more  of  Lake  Leman  than  of  Battersea. 
Nor  had  they,  it  might  appear,  seen  more  of  the 
1 Mer  de  Glace,  on  their  way  here ; their  talk 
about  it  bearing  much  resemblance  to  that  of 
the  man  who  had  been  to  Niagara  and  said  it 
was  nothing  but  water.” 

His  next  letter  described  a day’s  party  of  the 
Cerjats,  Watsons,  and  Haldimands,  among  the 
neighbouring  hills,  which,  contrary  to  his  custom 
while  at  work,  he  had  been  unable  to  resist  the 
temptation  of  joining.  They  went  to  a moun- 
tain-lake twelve  miles  off,  had  dinner  at  the 
public-house  on  the  lake,  and  returned  home  by 
Vevay  at  which  they  rested  for  tea;  and  where 
pleasant  talk  with  Mr.  Cerjat  led  to  anecdotes 
of  an  excellent  friend  of  ours,  formerly  resident 
at  Lausanne,  with  which  the  letter  closed.  Our 
friend  was  a distinguished  writer,  and  a man  of 
many  sterling  fine  qualities,  but  with  a habit 
of  occasional  free  indulgence  in  coarseness  of 
speech,  which,  though  his  earlier  life  had  made 
it  as  easy  to  acquire  as  difficult  to  drop,  did 
always  less  than  justice  to  a very  manly,  honest, 
and  really  gentle  nature.  He  had  as  much 
genuinely  admirable  stuff  in  him  as  any  favourite 
hero  of  Smollett  or  Fielding,  and  I never  knew 
anyone  who  reminded  me  of  those  characters  so 
much.  “ It  would  seem,  Mr.  Cerjat  tells  me, 
that  he  was,  when  here,  infinitely  worse  in  his 
general  style  of  conversation,  than  now — ser- 
muchser,  as  Toodle  says,  that  Cerjat  describes 
himself  as  having  always  been  in  unspeakable 
agony  when  he  was  at  his  table,  lest  he  should 
1 forget  himself  (or  remember  himself,  as  I sug- 
1 gested)  and  break  out  before  the  ladies.  There 
I happened  to  be  living  here  at  that  time  a stately 

English  baronet  and  his  wife,  who  had  two  sons 
concerning  whom  they  cherished  the  idea  of 
accomplishing  their  education  into  manhood  co- 
existently  with  such  perfect  purity  and  innocence, 
that  they  were  hardly  to  know  their  own  sex. 
Accordingly,  they  were  sent  to  no  school  or 
college,  but  had  masters  of  all  sorts  at  home, 
and  thus  reached  eighteen  years  or  so,  in  what 
Falstaff  calls  a kind  of  male  green-sickness.  At 
this  crisis  of  their  innocent  existence,  our  ogre 
friend  encountered  these  lambs  at  dinner,  with 
their  father,  at  Cerjat’s  house;  and,  as  if  pos- 
sessed by  a devil,  launched  out  into  such  fright- 
ful and  appalling  impropriety  that  years  of  edu- 
cation in  Newgate  would  have  been  as  nothing 
compared  with  their  experience  of  that  one 
afternoon.  After  turning  paler  and  paler,  and 
more  and  more  stoney,  the  baronet,  with  a half- 
suppressed  .cry,  rose  and  fled.  But  the  sons — 
intent  on  the  ogre — remained  instead  of  follow- 

our  friend  and  his  pupils  now Poor 

fellow  ! He  seems  to  have  had  a hard  time  of 
it  in  his  home  ....  and  to  have  been  himself, 
in  all  good-natured  easy-going  ways,  just  what  we 
know  him  now.” 

There  were  at  this  date  some  fresh  arrivals  of 
travelling  English  at  Lausanne,  outside  their 
own  little  circle,  and  among  them  another  baro- 
net and  his  family  made  amusing  appearance. 

“ AVe  have  another  English  family  here,  one  Sir 
Joseph  and  his  lady,  and  ten  children.  Sir 
Joseph,  a large  baronet  something  in  the  Gra- 
ham style,  with  a little,  loquacious,  flat-faced, 
damaged-featured,  old  young  wife.  They  are 
fond  of  society,  and  couldn’t  well  have  less.  They 
delight  in  a view,  and  live  in  a close  street  at 
Ouchy  down  among  the  drunken  boatmen  and 
the  drays  and  omnibuses,  where  nothing  what- 
ever is  to  be  seen  but  the  locked  wheels  of  carts 
scraping  down  the  uneven,  steep,  stone  pave- 
ment. The  baronet  plays  double-dummy  all 
day  long,  with  an  unhappy  Swiss  whom  he  has 
entrapped  for  that  purpose;  the  baronet’s  lady 
pays  visits ; and  the  baronet’s  daughters  play 
a Lausanne  piano,  which  must  be  heard  to  be 
appreciated ” 

Another  sketch  in  the  same  letter  touches 
little  more  than  the  eccentricities  (but  all  in 
good  taste  and  good  humour)  of  the  subject  of 
it,  who  is  still  gratefully  remembered  by  English 
residents  in  Italy  for  his  scholarly  munificence, 
and  for  very  valuable  service  conferred  by  it  on 
Italian  literature.  “ Another  curious  man  is  1 
backwards  and  forwards  here — a Lord  Vernon, 
who  is  well-informed,  a great  Italian  scholar 
deep  in  Dante,  and  a very  good-humoured  gen- 

202  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


tleman,  but  who  has  fallen  into  the  strange  in- 
fatuation of  attending  every  rifle-match  that  takes 
place  in  Switzerland,  accompanied  by  two  men 
who  load  rifles  for  him,  one  after  another,  which 
he  has  been  frequently  known  to  fire  off,  two  a 
minute,  for  fourteen  hours  at  a stretch,  without 
once  changing  his  position  or  leaving  the  ground. 
He  wins  all  kinds  of  prizes ; gold  watches,  flags, 
teaspoons,  teaboards,  and  so  forth ; and  is  con- 
stantly travelling  about  with  them,  from  place  to 
place,  in  an  extraordinary  carriage,  where  you 
touch  a spring  and  a chair  flies  out,  touch  ano- 
ther spring  and  a bed  appears,  touch  another 
spring  and  a closet  of  pickles  opens,  touch  ano- 
ther spring  and  disclose  a pantry  ! while  Lady 
Vernon  (said  to  be  handsome  and  accomplished) 
is  continually  cutting  across  this  or  that  Alpine 
pass  in  the  night,  to  meet  him  on  the  road  for  a 
minute  or  two,  on  one  of  his  excursions ; these 
being  the  only  times  at  which  she  can  catch 
him.  The  last  time  he  saw  her,  was  five  or  six 
months  ago,  when  they  met  and  supped  together 
on  the  St.  Gothard  ! It  is  a monomania  with 
him,  of  course.  He  is  a man  of  some  note  ; 
seconded  one  of  Lord  Melbourne’s  addresses ; 
and  had  forty  thousand  a year,  now  reduced  to 
ten,  but  nursing  and  improving  every  day.  He 
was  with  us  last  Monday,  and  comes  back  from 
some  out-of-the-way  place  to  join  another  small 
picnic  next  Friday.  As  I have  said,  he  is  the 
very  soul  of  good  nature  and  cheerfulness,  but 
one  can’t  help  being  melancholy  to  see  a man 
wasting  his  life  in  such  a singular  delusion.  Isn’t 
it  odd  ? He  knows  my  books  very  well,  and 
seems  interested  in  everything  concerning  them  ; 
being  indeed  accomplished  in  books  generally, 
and  attached  to  many  elegant  tastes.” 

But  the  most  agreeable  addition  to  their  own 
special  circle  was  referred  to  in  his  first  Septem- 
ber letter,  just  when  he  was  coming  to  the  close 
of  his  second  number  of  Dombey.  “ There  are 
two  nice  girls  here,  the  Ladies  Taylor,  daughters 
of  Lord  Headfort.  Their  mother  was  daughter 
(1  think)  of  Sir  John  Stevenson,  and  Moore 
dedicated  one  part  of  the  Irish  Melodies  to  her. 
They  inherit  the  musical  taste,  and  sing  very 
well.  A proposal  is  on  foot  for  our  all  bundling 
off  on  Tuesday  (i6  strong)  to  the  top  of  the 
Great  St.  Bernard.  But  the  weather  seems  to 
have  broken,  and  the  autumn  rains  to  have  set 
in  ; which  I devoutly  hope  will  break  up  the 
party.  It  would  be  a most  serious  hindrance  to 
me,  just  now;  but  I have  rashly  promised.  Do 
you  know  young  Romilly  ? He  is  coming  over 
irom  Geneva  when  ‘ the  reading  ’ comes  olf,  and 
is  a fine  fellow  I am  told.  There  is  not  a bad 
little  theatre  here;  and  by  way  of  an  artificial 


crowd,  I should  certainly  have  got  it  open  with 
an  amateur  company,  if  we  were  not  so  few  that 
the  only  thing  we  want  is  the  audience.”  .... 
The  “ reading”  named  by  him  was  that  of  his 
first  number,  which  was  to  “ come  off  ” as  soon 
as  I could  get  the  proofs  out  to  him ; but  which 
the  changes  needful  to  be  made,  and  to  be  men- 
tioned hereafter,  still  delayed.  The  St.  Bernard 
holiday,  which  within  sight  of  his  Christmas-book 
labour  he  would  fain  have  thrown  over,  came  off 
as  proposed  very  fortunately  for  the  reader,  \vho 
might  otherwise  have  lost  one  of  his  pleasantest 
descriptions.  But  before  giving  it,  one  more 
little  sketch  of  character  may  be  interposed  ; as 
delicately  done  as  anything  in  his  writings. 
Steele’s  observation  is  in  the  outline,  and  Charles 
Lamb’s  humour  in  its  touch  of  colouring. 

“ . . . . There  are  two  old  ladies  (English) 
living  here  who  may  serve  me  for  a few  lines  of 
gossip — as  I have  intended  they  should,  over 
and  over  again,  but  I have  always  forgotten  it. 
There  were  originally  four  old  ladies,  sisters,  but 
two  of  them  have  faded  away  in  the  course  of 
eighteen  years,  and  withered  by  the  side  of  John 
Kemble  in  the  cemetery.  They  are  very  little 
and  very  skinny ; and  each  of  them  wears  a row 
of  false  curls,  like  little  rolling-pins,  so  low  upon 
her  brow,  that  there  is  no  forehead;  nothing 
above  the  eyebrows  but  a deep  horizontal  wrinkle, 
and  then  the  curls.  They  live  upon  some  small 
annuity.  For  thirteen  years  they  have  wanted 
very  much  to  move  to  Italy,  as  the  eldest  old 
lady  says  the  climate  of  this  part  of  Switzerland 
doesn’t  agree  with  her,  and  preys  upon  her 
spirits  ; but  they  have  never  been  able  to  go, 
because  of  the  difficulty  of  moving  ‘ the  books.’ 
This  tremendous  library  belonged  once  upon  a 
time  to  the  father  of  these  old  ladies,  and  com- 
prises about  fifty  volumes.  I have  never  been 
able  to  see  what  they  are,  because  one  of  the  old 
ladies  always  sits  before  them ; but  they  look, 
outside,  like  very  old  backgammon  boards.  The 
two  deceased  sisters  died  in  the  firm  persuasion 
that  this  precious  property  could  never  be  got 
over  the  Simplon  without  some  gigantic  effort  to 
which  the  united  family  was  unequal.  The  two 
remaining  sisters  live,  and  will  die  also,  in  the 
same  belief.  I met  the  eldest  (evidently  droop- 
ing)  yesterday,  ami  recommended  her  to  try 
Genoa.  She  looked  shrewdly  at  the  snow  that 
closes  up  the  mountain  prospect  just  now,  and 
said  that  when  the  spring  was  (.pute  set  in,  and 
the  avalanches  were  down,  and  the  passes  well 
open,  she  would  certainly  try  that  place,  if  they 
could  devise  any  plan,  in  the  course  of  the 
winter,  for  moving  ‘ the  books.’  The  whole 
library  will  be  sold  by  auction  here,  when  they 


SKETCHES  CIIIEFL  V PERSONAL. 


\ , are  both  dead,  for  about  a napoleon  ; and  some 
: i young  woman  will  carry  it  home  in  two  journeys 
I with  a basket.” 

I The  last  letter  sent  me  before  he  fell  upon  his 
self-appointed  task  for  Christmas,  contained  a 
! delightful  account  of  the  trip  to  the  Great  St. 

I Bernard.  It  was  dated  on  the  sixth  of  Sep- 

' tember. 

' “ The  weather  obstinately  clearing,  we  started 

I off  last  Tuesday  for  the  Great  St.  Bernard,  return- 

, ing  on  Friday  afternoon.  The  party  consisted 

j of  eleven  people  and  two  servants — Haldimand, 

i Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gerjat  and  one  daughter,  Mr.  and 

j Mrs.  Watson,  two  Ladies  Taylor,  Kate,  Georgy, 

and  I.  We  were  wonderfully  unanimous  and 
; i cheerful ; went  away  from  here  by  the  steamer ; 

; : found  at  its  destination  a whole  omnibus  pro- 

I ! vided  by  the  Brave  (who  went  on  in  advance 
' ' everywhere) ; rode  therein  to  Bex ; found  two 
large  carriages  ready  to  take  us  to  Martigny ; 
slept  there ; and  proceeded  up  the  mountain  on 
mules  next  day.  Although  the  St.  Bernard  con- 
•vent  is,  as  I dare  say  you  know,  the  highest 
inhabited  spot  but  one  in  the  world,  tlie  ascent 
I is  extremely  gradual  and  uncommonly  easy  : 
j really  presenting  no  difficulties  at  all  until  within 
I the  last  league,  when  the  ascent,  lying  through  a 
1 place  called  the  valley  of  desolation,  is  very 
! awful  and  tremendous,  and  the  road  is  rendered 
toilsome  by  scattered  rocks  and  melting  snow. 
The  convent  is  a most  extraordinary  place,  full 
of  great  vaulted  passages,  divided  from  each 
other  with  iron  gratings ; and  presenting  a series 
of  the  most  astonishing  little  dormitories,  where 
the  windows  are  so  small  (on  account  of  the 
cold  and  snow),  that  it  is  as  much  as  one  can 
do  to  get  one’s  head  out  of  them.  Here  we  slept : 
supping,  thirty  strong,  in  a rambling  room  with 
a great  wood-lire  in  it  set  apart  for  that  purpose  ; 
with  a grim  monk,  in  a high  black  sugar-loaf  hat 
with  a great  knob  at  the  top  of  it,  carving  the 
dishes.  At  five  o’clock  in  the  morning  the 
chapel  bell  rang  in  the  dismallest  way  for  matins  : 
and  I,  lying  in  bed  close  to  the  chapel,  and  being 
awakened  by  the  solemn  organ  and  the  chaunt- 
ing,  thought  for  a moment  I had  died  in  the 
night  and  passed  into  the  unknown  world. 

“ I wish  to  God  you  could  see  that  place.  A 
great  hollow  on  the  top  of  a range  of  dreadful 
mountains,  fenced  in  by  riven  rocks  of  every 
shape  and  colour : and  in  the  midst,  a black 
lake,  with  phantom  clouds  perpetually  stalking 
over  it.  Peaks,  and  points,  and  plains  of  eternal 
ice  and  snow,  bounding  the  view,  and  shutting 
out  the  world  on  every  side  : the  lake  reflecting 
nothing  : and  no  human  figure  in  the  scene.  The 
air  so  fine,  that  it  is  difficult  to  breathe  without 


203 


feeling  out  of  breath  ; and  tire  cold  so  exquisitely 
thin  and  sharp  that  it  is  not  to  be  described. 
Nothing  of  life  or  living  interest  in  the  picture, 
but  the  grey  dull  walls  of  the  convent.  No 
vegetation  of  any  sort  or  kind.  Nothing  grow- 
ing, nothing  stirring.  Everything  iron-bound, 
and  frozen  up.  Beside  the  convent,  in  a little 
outhouse  with  a grated  iron  door  which  you  may 
unbolt  for  yourself,  are  the  bodies  of  people 
found  in  the  snow  who  have  never  been  claimed 
and  are  withering  away — not  laid  down,  or 
stretched  out,  but  standing  up,  in  corners  and 
against  walls  j some  erect  and  horribly  human, 
with  distinct  expressions  on  the  faces ; some 
sunk  down  on  their  knees ; some  dropping  over 
on  one  side ; some  tumbled  down  altogether, 
and  presenting  a heap  of  skulls  and  fibrous  dust. 
There  is  no  other  decay  in  that  atmosphere ; 
and  there  they  remain  during  the  short  days  and 
the  long  nights,  the  only  human  company  out  of 
doors,  withering  away  by  grains,  and  holding 
ghastly  possession  of  the  mountain  where  they 
died. 

“ It  is  the  most  distinct  and  individual  place 
I have  seen,  even  in  this  transcendent  country. 
But,  for  the  St.  Bernard  holy  fathers  and  convent 
in  themselves,  I am  sorry  to  say  that  they  are  a 
piece  of  as  sheer  humbug  as  we  ever  learnt  to 
believe  in,  in  our  young  days.  Trashy  French 
sentiment  and  the  dogs  (of  which,  by  the  bye, 
there  are  only  three  remaining)  have  done  it  all. 
They  are  a lazy  set  of  fellows ; not  over  fond  of 
going  out  themselves ; employing  servants  to 
clear  the  road  (which  has  not  been  important  or 
much  used  as  a pass  these  hundred  years) ; rich ; 
and  driving  a good  trade  in  Innkeeping  : the 
convent  being  a common  tavern  in  everything 
but  the  sign.  No  charge  is  made  for  their  hos- 
pitality, to  be  sure ; but  you  are  shown  to  a box 
in  the  chapel,  where  everybody  puts  in  more  than 
could,  with  any  show  of  face,  be  charged  for  the 
entertainment ; and  from  this  the  establishment 
derives  a right  good  income.  As  to  the  self- 
sacrifice  of  living  up  there,  they  are  obliged  to 
go  there  young,  it  is  true,  to  be  inured  to  the 
climate  : but  it  is  an  infinitely  more  exciting  and 
various  life  than  any  other  convent  can  offer; 
with  constant  change  and  company  through  the 
whole  summer ; with  a hospital  tor  invalids  down 
in  the  valley,  which  affords  another  change ; and 
with  an  annual  begging-journey  to  Geneva  and 
this  place  and  all  the  places  round  for  one 
brother  or  other,  which  affords  farther  change. 
The  brother  who  carved  at  our  supper  could  speak 
some  English,  and  had  just  had  Pickwick  given 
him  ! — what  a humbug  he  will  think  me  when 
he  tries  to  understand  it  ! If  I had  had  any 


204  the  life  of  cilarles  dickens. 


other  book  of  mine  with  me,  I would  have  given 
it  him,  that  I might  have  had  some  chance  of 
being  intelligible 


V. 

LITERARY  LABOUR  AT  LAUSANNE. 

1846. 

^^^^OMETHING  of  the  other  side  of  the 
medal  has  now  to  be  presented.  His 
letters  enable  us  to  see  him  amid  his 
troubles  and  difficulties  of  writing,  as 
faithfully  as  in  his  leisure  and  enjoy- 
ments;  and  when,  to-the  picture  thus 
given  of  Dickens’s  home  life  in  Switzer- 
land,  some  account  has  been  added  of  the 
vicissitudes  of  literary  labour  undergone  in  the 
interval,  as  complete  a representation  of  the 
man  will  be  afforded  as  could  be  taken  from  any 
period  of  his  career.  Of  the  larger  life  whereof 
it  is  part,  the  Lausanne  life  is  indeed  a perfect 
microcosm,  wanting  only  the  London  streets. 
This  was  his  chief  present  want,  as  will  shortly 
be  perceived : but  as  yet  the  reader  does  not 
feel  it,  and  he  sees  otherwise  in  all  respects  at 
his  best  the  great  observer  and  humourist;  in- 
terested in  everything  that  commended  itself  to 
a thoroughly  earnest  and  eagerly  enquiring  na- 
ture ; popular  beyond  measure  with  all  having 
intercourse  with  him ; the  centre,  and  very  soul, 
of  social  enjoyment ; letting  nothing  escape  a 
vision  that  Avas  not  more  keen  than  kindly ; and 
even  when  apparently  most  idle,  never  idle 
in  the  sense  of  his  art,  but  adding  day  by  day  to 
experiences  that  widened  its  range,  and  gave  freer 
and  healthier  play  to  an  imagination  always  busily 
at  work,  alert  and  active  in  a singular  degree,  and 
that  seemed  to  be  quite  untiring.  At  his  heart 
there  was  a genuine  love  of  nature  at  all  times  ; 
and  strange  as  it  may  seem  to  connect  this  with 
such  forms  of  humorous  delineation  as  are  most 
identified  with  his  genius,  it  is  yet  the  literal  truth 
that  the  impressions  of  this  noble  Swiss  scenery 
were'with  him  during  the  work  of  manysubsequent 
years;  a present  and  actual,  though  it  might  be 
seldom  a directly  conscious,  influence.  When  he 
said  afterwards,  that,  while  writing  the  book  on 
which  he  is  now  engaged,  he  had  not  seen  less 
clearly  each  step  of  the  wooden  midshipman’s  stair- 
case, each  pew  of  the  church  in  which  Florence  was 
married,  or  each  bed  in  the  dormitory  of  Doctor 
Llimber’s  establishment,  because  he  was  himself 
at  the  time  by  the  lake  of  Geneva,  he  might  as 
truly  have  said  that  he  saw  them  all  the  more 
clearly  even  because  of  that  circumstance.  He 


worked  his  humour  to  its  greatest  results  by  the 
freedom  and  force  of  his  imagination  ; and  while 
the  smallest  or  commonest  objects  around  him 
Avere  food  for  the  one,  the  other  might  have 
pined  or  perished  Avithout  additional  higher  ali- 
ment. Dickens  had  little  love  for  WordsAvorth, 
but  he  Avas  himself  an  example  of  the  truth  the 
great  poet  never  tired  of  enforcing,  that  Nature 
has  subtle  helps  for  all  Avho  are  admitted  to  be- 
come free  of  her  Avonders  and  mysteries. 

Another  noticeable  thing  in  him  is  impressed 
upon  these  letters,  as  upon  many  also  heretofore 
quoted,  for  indeed  all  of  them  are  marvellously 
exact  in  the  reproduction  of  his  nature.  He  did 
not  think  lightly  of  his  Avork  ; and  the  Avork  that 
occupied  him  at  the  time  Avas  for  the  time  para- 
mount Avith  him.  But  the  sense  he  entertained,. 
AA’hether  right  or  Avrong,  of  the  importance  of 
Avhat  he  had  to  do,  of  the  degree  to  Avhich  it 
concerned  others  that  the  poAver  he  held  should 
be  exercised  successfully,  and  of  the  estimate  he 
AA^as  justified  in  forming  as  the  fair  measure  of  its 
Avorth,  does  not  carry  Avith  it  of  necessity  pre- 
sumption or  self-conceit.  FeAV  men  have  had  less 
of  either.  It  Avas  part  of  the  intense  indi- 
viduality by  Avhich  he  effected  so  much,  to  set  the 
high  value  Avhich  in  general  he  did  upon  Avhat 
he  AAns  striving  to  accomplish ; he  could  not 
otherAvise  have  mastered  one-half  of  Avhat  he 
designed;  and  Ave  are  able  to  fo;m  an  opinion, 
more  just  noAv  for  ourselves  than  it  might  haA  e 
seemed  to  us  then  from  others,  of  the  correct- 
ness of  such  self-judgment.  The  fussy  preten- 
sion of  small  men  in  great  places,  and  the  re- 
solute self-assertion  of  great  men  in  small  places, 
are  things  essentially  different.  Rcspicc  fincnu 
The  exact  relative  importance  of  all  our  pursuits 
is  to  be  arrived  at  by  nicer  adjustments  of  the 
Noav  and  the  Hereafter  than  are  possible  to 
contemporary  judgments  ; and  there  have  1 een 
some  indications  since  his  death  confirmatory 
of  the  belief,  that  the  estimate  Avhich  he  thought 
himself  entitled  to  form  of  the  labours  to  Avhich 
his  life  Avas  devoted,  Avill  be  strengthened,  not 
lessened,  by  time. 

Dickens  proposed  to  himself,  it  Avill  be  re- 
membered, to  Avrite  at  Lausanne  not  only  the 
first  four  numbers  of  his  larger  book,  but  the 
Christmas  book  suggested  to  him  by  his  fancy 
of  a battle-field  ; and  reserving  Avhat  is  to  be 
said  of  Dombey  to  a later  chaj)tcr,  this  and  its 
successor  Avill  deal  only  Avith  Avhat  he  tinishcd 
as  Avell  as  began  in  SAvitzerland,  and  Avill  shoAv 
at  Avhat  cost  even  so  much  Avas  achieved  amid 
his  other  and  larger  engagements. 

He  had  restless  fancies  and  misgivings  belore 
he  settled  to  his  first  notion.  “ I have  been 


LITER  A R Y LABO  UR  AT  LA  USANNE.  205 


thinking  this  last  day  or  two,”  lie  wrote  on  the 
25th  of  July,  “ that  good  Christmas  characters 
might  be  grown  out  of  the  idea  of  a man  im- 
prisoned for  ten  or  fifteen  years  : his  imprison- 
ment being  the  gap  between  the  people  and 
circumstances  of  the  first  part  and  the  altered 


people  and  circumstances  of  the  second,  and 
his  own  changed  mind.  Though  I shall  proba- 
bly proceed  with  the  Battle  idea,  I should  like 
to  know  what  you  think  of  this  one  ?”  It  was 
afterwards  used  in  a modified  shape  for  the 
Tale  of  Two  Cities.  “ I shall  begin  the  little 


“I  H.WE  NEVER  BEEN  ABLE  TO  SEE  WHAT  THEY  ARE,  BECAUSE  ONE  OF  THE  OLD  LADIES  ALWAYS  SITS  BEFORE 
THEM  ; BUT  THEY  LOOK,  OUTSIDE,  LIKE  VERY  OLD  BACKGAMMON  BOARDS.” 


story  straightway,”  he  wrote,  a few  weeks  later ; 
“but  I have  been  dimly  conceiving  a very 
ghostly  and  wild  idea,  which  I suppose  I must 
now  reserve  for  the  next  Christmas  book.  Nous 
verrons.  It  will  mature  in  the  streets  of  Paris 
by  night,  as  well  as  in  London.”  This  took 


ultimately  the  form  of  the  Haunted  Man,  which 
was  not  written  until  the  winter  of  1848.  At 
last  I knew  that  his  first  slip  was  done,  and  that 
even  his  eager  busy  fancy  would  not  turn  him 
back  again. 

But  other  unsatisfied  wants  and  cravings  had 


2o6 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


meanwhile  broken  out  in  him,  of  which  I heard 
near  the  close  of  the  second  number  of  Dovibcy. 
The  first  he  had  finished  at  the  end  of  July; 
and  the  second,  which  he  began  on  the  8th  of 
August,  he  was  still  at  work  upon  in  the  first 
v/eek  of  September,  when  this  remarkable  an- 
nouncement came  to  me.  It  was  his  first 
detailed  confession  of  what  he  felt  so  continu- 
ously, and  if  that  were  possible  even  more 
strongly  as  the  years  went  on,  that  there  is  no 
single  passage  in  any  of  his  letters  which 
throws  such  a flood  of  illuminative  light  into 
the  portions  of  his  life  which  will  always  awaken 
the  greatest  interest.  Very  much  that  is  to 
follow  must  be  read  by  it.  “ You  can  hardly 
imagine,”  he  wrote  on  the  30th  of  August, 
what  infinite  pains  I take,  or  what  extraor- 
dinary difficulty  I find  in  getting  on  fast.  In- 
vention, thank  God,  seems  the  easiest  thing  in 
the  world  ; and  I seem  to  have  such  a prepos- 
terous sense  of  the  ridiculous,  after  this  long 
rest  ” (it  was  now  over  two  years  since  the  close 
of  Chuzzlewit),  “as  to  be  constantly  requiring 
to  restrain  myself  from  launching  into  extrava- 
gances in  the  height  of  my  enjoyment.  But  the 
difficulty  of  going  at  what  I call  a rapid  pace,  is 
prodigious : it  is  almost  an  impossibility.  I 
suppose  this  is  partly  the  effect  of  two  years’ 
ease,  and  partly  of  the  absence  of  streets  and 
numbers  of  figures.  I can’t  express  how  much 
I want  these.  It  seems  as  if  they  supplied 
something  to  my  brain,  which  it  cannot  bear, 
when  busy,  to  lose.  For  a week  or  a fortnight 
I can  write  prodigiously  in  a retired  place  (as  at 
Broadstairs),  and  a day  in  London  sets  me  up 
again  and  starts  me.  But  the  toil  and  labour 
of  writing,  day  alfer  day,  without  that  magic 
lantern,  is  immense  ! ! I don’t  say  this,  at  all 
in  low  spirits,  for  we  are  perfectly  comfortable 
here,  and  I like  the  place  very  much  indeed, 
and  the  people  are  even  more  friendly  and  fond 
of  me  than  they  were  in  Genoa.  I only  men- 
tion it  as  a curious  fact,  which  I have  never  had 
an  opportunity  of  finding  out  before.  J\Iy 
figures  seem  disposed  to  stagnate  without 
crowds  about  them.  I wrote  very  little  in 
Genoa  (only  the  CJiimts),  and  fancied  myself 
conscious  of  some  such  influence  there — but 
Lord ! I had  two  miles  of  streets  at  least, 
lighted  at  night,  to  walk  about  in ; and  a great 
theatre  to  re})air  to,  every  night.”  At  the  close 
of  the  letter  he  told  me  that  he  had  pretty  well 
matured  the  general  idea  of  the  Ghristmas  book, 
and  was  burning  to  get  to  work  on  it.  lie 
thought  it  would  be  all  the  better,  for  a change, 
to  have  no  fairies  or  spirits  in  it,  but  to  make 
it  a simple  domestic  tale. 


In  less  than  a week  from  this  date  his  second 
number  was  finished,  his  first  slip  of  the  little 
book  done,  and  his  confidence  greater.  They 
had  had  wonderful  weather,  so  clear  that  he  could 
see  from  the  Neuchatel  road  the  outline  of 
Mont  Blanc,  sixty  miles  off,  as  plainly  as  if  he 
were  standing  close  under  it  in  the  courtyard  of 
the  little  inn  at  Ghamounix  ; and,  though  again 
it  was  raining  when  he  wrote,  his  “nailed 
shoes ’’were  by  him  and  his  “ great  waterproof 
cloak  ” in  preparation  for  a “ fourteen-mile 
walk  ” before  dinner.  Then,  after  three  days 
more,  came  something  of  a sequel  to  the  con- 
fession before  made,  which  will  be  read  with 
equal  interest.  “ The  absence  of  any  accessible 
streets  continues  to  worry  me,  now  that  I have 
so  much  to  do,  in  a most  singular  manner.  It 
is  quite  a little  mental  jihenomenon.  I should 
not  walk  in  them  in  the  day  time,  if  they  were 
here,  I dare  say;  but  at  night  I want  them  be- 
yond description.  I don’t  seem  able  to  get  rid 
of  my  spectres  unless  I can  lose  them  in  crowds. 
However,  as  you  say,  there  are  streets  in  Paris, 
and  good  suggestive  streets  too  : and  trips  to 
London  will  be  nothing  then.  When  I have 
finished  the  Ghristmas  book,  I shall  fly  to 
Geneva  for  a day  or  two,  before  taking  up  with 
Dombey  again.  I like  this  place  better  and 
better ; and  never  saw,  I think,  more  agreeable 
people  than  our  little  circle  is  made  up  of.  It 
is  so  little,  that  one  is  not  ‘ bothered  ’ in  the 
least ; and  their  interest  in  the  inimitable  seems 
to  strengthen  daily.  I read  them  the  first  num- 
ber, last  night  ‘ was  a ’ week,  with  unrelateable 
success ; and  old  Mrs.  Marcet,  who  is  devilish 
’cute,  guessed  directly  (but  I didn’t  tell  her  she 
was  right)  that  little  Paul  would  die.  They 
were  all  so  apprehensive  that  it  was  a great 
pleasure  to  read  it ; and  I shall  leave  here,  if 
all  goes  well,  in  a brilliant  shower  of  sparks 
struck  out  of  them  by  the  promised  reading  of 
the  Christmas  book.”  Little  did  either  of  us 
then  imagine  to  what  these  readings  were  to 
lead,  but  even  thus  early  they  were  taking  in 
his  mind  the  shape  of  a sort  of  jest  that  the 
smallest  opportunity  of  fiivour  might  have 
turned  into  earnest.  In  his  very  next  letter  he 
wrote  to  me  : “ I was  thinking  the  other  day 
that  in  these  days  of  lecturings  and  readings,  a 
great  ileal  of  money  might  possibly  be  made  (if 
it  were  not  infra  dig)  by  one’s  having  Readings 
of  one’s  own  books.  It  would  be  an  odd  thing. 
I think  it  would  take  immensely.  What  do  you 
say?  Will  you  stej)  to  Uean-street,  and  see 
how  Miss  Kelly’s  engagement-book  (it  must  be 
an  immense  volume  !)  stands  ? Or  shall  1 take 
the  St.  James’s?”  My  answer  is  to  be  inferred 


LITERAR  V LABOUR  AT  LA  US  ANNE.  207 


from  his  rejoinder  : but  even  at  this  time,  while 
heiglitening  and  carrying  forward  his  jest,  I sus- 
pected him  of  graver  desires  than  he  cared  to 
avow  ; and  the  time  was  to  come,  after  a dozen 
years,  when  with  earnestness  equal  to  his  own 
I continued  to  oppose,  for  reasons  to  be  stated 
in  their  place,  that  which  he  had  set  his  heart 
upon  too  strongly  to  abandon,  and  which  I still 
can  only  wish  he  had  preferred  to  surrender 
with  all  that  seemed  to  be  its  enormous  gains  ! 

I don't  think  you  have  exercised  your  usual 
judgment  in  taking  Covent-garden  for  me.  I 
doubt  it  is  too  large  for  my  purpose.  How- 
ever, I shall  stand  by  whatever  you  propose  to 
the  proprietors.” 

Soon  came  the  changes  of  trouble  and  vexa- 
tion I had  too  surely  seen.  “ You  remember,” 
he  wrote,  “ your  objection  about  the  two  stories. 
I made  over  light  of  it.  I ought  to  have  con- 
sidered that  I have  never  before  really  tried  the 
opening  of  two  together — having  always  had 
one  pretty  far  ahead  when  I have  been  driving 
a pair  of  them.  I know  it  all  now.  The  ap- 
parent impossibility  of  getting  each  into  its 
place,  coupled  with  that  craving  for  streets,  so 
thoroughly  put  me  off  the  track,  that,  up  to 
Wednesday  or  Thursday  last,  I really  contem- 
plated, at  times,  the  total  abandonment  of  the 
Christmas  book  this  year,  and  the  limitation  of 
my  labours  to  Dombey  ajid  Son ! I cancelled 
the  beginning  of  a first  scene — which  I have 
never  done  before — and,  Avith  a notion  in  my 
head,  ra’n  wildly  about  and  about  it,  and  could 
not  get  the  idea  into  any  natural  socket.  At 
length,  thank  Heaven,  I nailed  it  all  at  once; 
and  after  going  on  comfortably  up  to  yesterday, 
and  working  yesterday  from  half-past  nine  to 
six,  I was  last  night  in  such  a state  of  enthusiasm 
about  it  that  I think  I was  an  inch  or  two  taller. 
I am  a little  cooler  to-day,  Avith  a headache  to 
boot ; but  I really  begin  to  hope  you  Avill  think 
it  a pretty  story,  Avith  some  delicate  notions  in 
it  agreeably  presented,  and  Avith  a good  human 
Christmas  groundAVork.  I fancy  I see  a great 
domestic  effect  in  the  last  part.” 

That  Avas  Avritten  on  the  20th  of  September; 
but  six  days  later  changed  the  picture,  and  sur- 
prised me  not  a little.  I might  grudge  the  space 
thus  given  to  one  of  the  least  important  of  his 
books  but  that  the  illustration  goes  farther  than 
the  little  tale  it  refers  to,  and  is  a picture  of  him 
in  his  moods  of  Avriting,  Avith  their  Aveakness  as 
Avell  as  strength  upon  him,  of  a perfect  truth  and 
applicability  to  every  period  of  his  life.  Move- 
ment and  change  Avhile  heAA'as  Avorking  Avere  not 
mere  restlessness,  as  Ave  have  seen ; it  AA^as  no 
impatience  of  labour,  or  desire  of  pleasure,  that 


led  at  such  times  to  his  eager  craving  for  the 
fresh  croAvds  and  Hces  in  Avhich  he  might  lose 
or  find  the  creatures  of  his  fancy ; and  recollect- 
ing this,  much  hereafter  Avill  be  understood  that 
might  else  be  very  far  from  clear,  in  regard  to 
the  sensitive  conditions  under  Avhich  otherwise 
he  carried  on  these  e.xertions  of  his  brain.  “ I 
am  going  to  Avrite  you”  (26th  of  September)  “a 
most  startling  piece  of  intelligence.  I fear  there 
may  be  no  Christm.<vs  Book  ! I Avould  give 
the  Avorld  to  be  on  the  spot  to  tell  you  this. 
Indeed  I once  thought  of  starting  for  London 
to-night.  I have  Avritten  nearly  a third  of  it. 

It  promises  to  be  pretty;  quite  a nerv  idea  in 
the  story,  I hope ; but  to  manage  it  Avithout  the 
supernatural  agency  noAv  impossible  of  introduc- 
tion, and  yet  to  move  it  naturally  Avithin  the  i 
required  space,  or  Avith  any  shorter  limit  than  a ! 
Vica7-  of  Wakefield,  I find  to  be  a difficulty  so 
perplexing — the  past  Dombey  Avork  taken  into 
account — that  I am  fearful  of  Avearing  m.yself 
out  if  I go  on,  and  not  being  able  to  come  back 
to  the  greater  undertaking  Avith  the  necessary 
freshness  and  spirit.  If  I had  nothing  but  the 
Christmas  book  to  do,  I avould  do  it ; but  I get 
horrified  and  distressed  beyond  conception  at 
the  prospect  of  being  jaded  Avhen  I come  back  t 
to  the  other,  and  making  it  a mere  race  against 
time.  I have  Avritten  the  first  part ; I knOAV  the 
end  and  upshot  of  the  second ; and  the  Avhole 
of  the  third  (there  are  only  three  in  all).  I 
knoAv  the  purport  of  each  character,  and  the 
plain  idea  that  each  is  to  Avork  out ; and  I have 
the  principal  effects  sketched  on  paper.  It 
cannot  end  quite  happily,  but  Avill  end  cheerfully 
and  pleasantly.  But  my  soul  sinks  before  the 
commencement  of  the  second  part — the  longest  | 
— and  the  introduction  of  the  under-idea.  (The 
main  one  already  developed,  Avith  interest.)  I 
don’t  knoAV  hoAv  it  is.  I suppose  it  is  the  having 
been  almost  constantly  at  AVork  in  this  quiet 
place ; and  the  dread  for  the  Dombey ; and  the 
not  being  able  to  get  rid  of  it,  in  noise  and 
bustle.  The  beginning  two  books  together  is 
also,  no  doubt,  a Iruitful  source  of  the  difficulty ; 
for  I am  noAv  sure  I could  not  have  invented  the 
Cai'ol  at  the  commencement  of  the  Chuzzlewit, 
or  gone  to  a neAv  book  from  the  Chimes.  But 
this  is  certain.  I am  sick,  giddy,  and  capri- 
ciously despondent.  I have  bad  nights ; am 
full  of  disquietude  and  anxiety;  and  am  con- 
stantly haunted  by  the  idea  that  I am  Avasting 
the  marroAV  of  the  larger  book,  and  ought  to  be 
at  rest.  One  letter  that  I AATote  you  before  this, 

I have  torn  up.  In  that  the  Christmas  book 
AA'as  Avholly  given  up  for  this  year : but  I noAV 
resolve  to  make  one  effort  more.  I Avill  go  to 


2oS  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Geneva  to-morrow,  and  try  on  Monday  or 
Tuesday  whether  I can  get  on  at  all  bravely,  in 
the  changed  scene.  If  I cannot,  I am  con- 
vinced that  I had  best  hold  my  hand  at  once  ; 
and  not  fritter  my  spirits  and  hope  away,  with 
that  long  book  before  me.  You  may  suppose 
that  the  matter  is  very  grave  when  I can  so 
nearly  abandon  anything  in  which  I am  deeply 
interested,  and  fourteen  or  fifteen  close  1\IS 
pages  of  which,  that  have  made  me  laugh  and 
cry,  are  lying  in  my  desk.  Writing  this  letter  at 
all,  I have  a great  misgiving  that  the  letter  I 
shall  write  you  on  Tuesday  night  will  not  make 
it  better.  Take  it,  for  Heaven’s  sake,  as  an 
extremely  serious  thing,  and  not  a fancy  of  the 
moment.  Last  Saturday  after  a very  long  day’s 
work,  and  last  Wednesday  after  finishing  the  first 
part,  I was  full  of  eagerness  and  pleasure.  At 
all  other  times  since  I began,  I have  been 
j brooding  and  brooding  over  the  idea  that  it  was 
I a wild  thing  to  dream  of,  ever  : and  that  I ought 
I to  be  at  rest  for  the  DombeyS 
\ The  letter  came,  written  on  Wednesday  not 
Tuesday  night,  and  it  left  the  question  still  un- 
settled. “ When  I came  here  ” (Geneva,  30th 
of  September)  “ I had  a blood-shot  eye ; and 
my  head  was  so  bad,  with  a pain  across  the 
brow,  that  I thought  I must  have  got  cupped. 
I have  become  a great  deal  better,  however,  and 

feel  quite  myself  again  to-day I still  have 

not  made  up  my  mind  as  to  what  I can  do  with 
the  Christmas  book.  I would  give  any  money 
that  it  were  possible  to  consult  with  you.  I 
have  begun  the  second  part  this  morning,  and 
have  done  a very  fair  morning’s  work  at  it,  but 
I do  not  feel  it  in  hand  within  the  necessary 
space  and  divisions  : and  I have  a great  uneasi- 
ness in  the  prospect  of  falling  behind  hand  with 
the  other  labour,  which  is  so  transcendently  im- 
portant. I feel  quite  sure  that  unless  I (being 
in  reasonably  good  state  and  spirits)  like  the 
Christmas  book  myself,  I had  better  not  go  on 
witlr  it ; but  had  best  keep  my  strength  for 
Dombey,  and  keep  my  number  in  advance.  On 
the  other  hand  I am  dreadfully  averse  to  aban- 
doning it,  and  am  so  torn  between  the  two 
things  that  L know  not  what  to  do.  It  is  im- 
possible to  express  the  wish  I have  that  I could 
take  counsel  with  you.  Having  begun  the  second 
part  I will  go  on  here,  to-monow  and  Friday 
(Saturday,  the  Talfourds  come  to  us  at  Lausanne, 
leaving  on  Monday  morning),  unless  I see  new 
reason  to  give  it  up  in  the  meanwhile.  Let  it 
stand  thus — that  my  next  Monday’s  letter  shall 
finally  decide  the  question.  Tut  if  you  have 
not  already  told  Bradbury  and  Evans  of  my  last 
letter  I think  it  will  now  be  best  to  do  so 


This  non-publication  of  a Christmas  book,  if  it 
must  be,  I try  to  think  light  of  with  the  greater 
story  just  begun,  and  with  this  Talk  of  Life 
story  (of  which  I really  think  the  leading  idea  is 
very  pretty)  lying  by  me,  for  future  use.  But  I 
would  like  you  to  consider,  in  the  event  of  my 
not  going  on,  how  best,  by  timely  announce- 
ment, in  November  or  December’s  Dombey,  I 
may  seem  to  hold  the  ground  prospectively. 
....  Heaven  send  me  a good  deliverance  ! 
If  I don’t  do  it,  it  will  be  the  first  time  I ever 
abandoned  anything  I had  once  taken  in  hand ; 
and  I shall  not  have  abandoned  it  until  after  a 
most  desperate  fight.  I could  do  it,  but  for  the 
Dombey,  as  easily  as  I did  last  year  or  the  year 
before.  But  I cannot  help  falling  back  on  that 
continually  : and  this,  combined  with  the  pecu- 
liar difficulties  of  the  story  for  a Christmas  book, 
and  my  being  out  of  sorts,  discourages  me  sadly. 
....  Kate  is  here,  and  sends  her  love.”  .... 
A postscript  was  added  on  the  following  day. 
“ Georgy  has  come  over  from  Lausanne,  and 
joins  with  Kate,  &:c.,  &c.  My  head  remains 
greatly  better.  My  eye  is  recovering  its  old  hue 
of  beautiful  white,  tinged  with  celestial  blue.  If 
I hadn’t  come  here,  I think  I should  have  had 
some  bad  low  fever.  The  sight  of  the  rushing 
Rhone  seemed  to  stir  my  blood  again.  I don’t 
think  I shall  want  to  be  cupped,  this  bout ; but 
it  looked,  at  one  time,  worse  than  I have  con- 
fessed to  you.  If  I have  any  return,  I will  have 
it  done  immediately.” 

He  stayed  two  days  longer  at  Geneva,  which 
he  found  to  be  a very  good  place  ; pleasantly 
reporting  himself  as  quite  dismayed  at  first  by 
the  sight  of  gas  in  it,  and  as  trembling  at  the 
noise  in  its  streets,  which  he  pronounced  to  be 
fully  equal  to  the  uproar  of  Richmond  in  Surrey  ; 
but  deriving  from  it  some  sort  of  benefit  both  in 
health  and  in  writing.  So  far  his  trip  had  been 
successful,  though  he  had  to  leave  the  place 
hurriedly  to  welcome  his  English  visitors  to 
Rosemont. 

One  social  and  very  novel  experience  he  had 
in  his  hotel,  however,  the  night  before  he  left, 
which  may  be  told  before  he  hastens  back  to 
Lausanne ; for  it  coukl  hardly  now  offend  any 
one  even  if  the  names  were  given.  “ And  now 
sir  I will  describe,  modestly,  tamely,  literally, 
the  visit  to  the  small  select  circle  which  I i)io- 
mised  should  make  your  hair  stand  on  end.  In 
our  hotel  were  a Mother  and  a Daughter,  who 
came  to  the  Peschiere  shortly  before  we  left  it, 
and  who  have  a deep  admiration  for  your  liumble 
servant  the  inimitable  B.  They  arc  both  \ cry 
clever.  Daughter,  extremely  well-informed  in 
languages  living  and  dead,  books,  and  gossip  ; 


very  i>retty ; with  two  little  children,  nnd  not  yet 
live  and  twenty.  IMother,  j)lump,  fresh,  and 
rosy;  matronly,  but  full  of  spirits  and  good  looks. 
Nothing  wouUl  serve  them  but  we  /////sZ  dine 
with  them  ; and  accordingly,  on  Friday  at  six, 
we  went  down  to  their  room.  I knew  them  to 
be  rather  odd.  For  instance,  I ha\-e  known  the 
Mother,  full  dressed,  walk  alone,  through  the 
streets  of  Genoa,  the  squalid  Italian  bye-streets, 
to  the  Governor’s  soiree  : and  announce  herself 
at  the  palace  of  state,  by  knocking  at  the  door. 
I have  also  met  the  Daughter  full  dressed, 
without  any  cap  or  bonnet,  walking  a mile  to 
the  opera,  with  all  sorts  of  jingling  jewels  about 
her,  beside  a sedan  chair  in  which  sat  enthroned 
her  mama.  Consequently,  I was  not  surprised 
at  such  little  sparkles  in  the  conversation  (from 
the  young  lady)  as  ‘ Oh  God  what  a sermon  we 
had  here  last  Sunday  ! ’ ‘ And  did  you  ever 

read  such  infernal  trash  as  Mrs.  Gore's?’ — and 
I the  like.  Still,  but  for  Kate  and  Georgy  (who 

j were  decidedly  in  the  way,  as  we  agreed  after- 

I wards),  I should  have  thought  it  all  very  funny ; 
and,  as  it  was,  I threw  the  ball  back  again,  was 
mighty  free  and  easy,  made  some  rather  broad 
jokes,  and  was  highly  applauded.  ‘You  smoke, 
don’t  you?’  said  the  young  lady,  in  a pause  of 
this  kind  of  conversation.  ‘ Yes,’  I said,  ‘ I 
generally  take  a cigar  after  dinner  when  I am 
alone.’  ‘I’ll  give  you  a good  ’un,’  said  she, 
‘ when  we  go  up-stairs.’  Well,  sir,  in  due  course 
we  went  up  stairs,  and  there  we  were  joined  by 
an  American  lady  residing  in  the  same  hotel, 
who  looked  like  what  we  call  in  old  England  ‘ a 
reg'lar  Bunter  ’ — fluffy  face  (rouged)  ; consider- 
able development  of  figure ; one  groggy  eye ; 
blue  satin  dress  made  low  rvith  short  sleeves, 
and  shoes  of  the  same.  Also  a daughter  ; face 
likewise  flufiy  ; figure  likewise  developed  ; dress 
likewise  low,  with  short  sleeves,  and  shoes  of 
j the  same  ; and  one  eye  not  yet  actually  groggy, 

I but  going  to  be.  American  lady  married  at 

I sixteen  ; American  daughter  sixteen  now,  often 
j mistaken  for  sisters,  &c.  &c.  &c.  When  that 
was  over,  the  younger  of  our  entertainers  brought 
out  a cigar  box,  and  gave  me  a cigar,  made 
of  negrohead  she  said,  which  would  quell  an 
elephant  in  six  whiffs.  The  box  was  full  of 
cigarettes  — good  large  ones,  made  of  pretty 
strong  tobacco ; I always  smoke  them  here,  and 
used  to  smoke  them  at  Genoa,  and  I knew  them 
well.  When  I lighted  my  cigar.  Daughter  lighted 
hers,  at  mine  ; leaned  against  the  mantelpiece, 
in  conversation  with  me ; put  out  her  stomach, 
folded  her  arms,  and  with  her  pretty  face  cocked 
up  sideways  and  her  cigarette  smoking  away 
like  a hlanchester  cotton  mill,  laughed,  and 


209 


talked,  and  smoked,  in  the  most  gentlemanly 
manner  I ever  beheld.  Mother  immediately 
lighted  her  cigar  ; American  lady  immediately 
lighted  hers ; and  in  five  minutes  the  room  was 
a cloud  of  smoke,  with  us  four  in  the  centre 
pulling  away  bravely,  while  American  lady  re- 
lated stories  of  her  “ Hookah  ” up  stairs,  and 
described  different  kinds  of  pipes.  But  even 
this  was  not  all.  For  presently  two  Frenchmen 
came  in,  with  whom,  and  the  American  lady. 
Daughter  sat  down  to  whist.  The  Frenchmen 
smoked  of  course  (they  were  really  modest  gen- 
tlemen and  seemed  dismayed),  and  Daughter 
played  for  the  next  hour  or  two  with  a cigar 
continually  in  her  mouth — never  out  of  it.  She 
certainly  smoked  six  or  eight.  Mother  gave  in 
soon — I think  she  only  did  it  out  of  vanity. 
American  lady  had  been  smoking  all  the  morn- 
ing. I took  no  more ; and  Daughter  and  the 
Frenchmen  had  it  all  to  themselves. 

“ Conceive  this  in  a great  hotel,  with  not  only 
their  own  servants,  but  half  a dozen  waiters 
coming  constantly  in  and  out ! I showed  no 
atom  of  surprise,  but  I never  was  so  surprised, 
so  ridiculously  taken  aback,  in  my  life  ; for  in  all 
my  experience  of  ‘ ladies  ’ of  one  kind  and 
another,  I never  saw  a woman — not  a basket 
woman  or  a gipsy — smoke,  before  ! ” He  lived 
to  have  larger  and  wider  experience,  but  there 
was  enough  to  startle  as  well  as  amuse  him  in 
the  scene  described. 

But  now  Saturday  is  come  ; he  has  hurried 
back  for  the  friends  who  are  on  their  way  to  his 
cottage ; and  on  his  arrival,  even  before  they 
have  appeared,  he  writes  to  tell  me  his  better 
news  of  himself  and  his  work. 

“ In  the  breathless  interval  ” (Rosemont : 3rd 
of  October)  “ between  our  return  from  Geneva 
and  the  arrival  of  the  Talfourds  (expected  in  an 
hour  or  two),  I cannot  do  better  than  write  to 
you.  For  I think  you  will  be  well  pleased  if  I 
anticipate  my  promise,  and  Monday,  at  the  ; 

same  time.  I have  been  greatly  better  at  Ge-  j 

neva,  though  I am  still  made  uneasy  by  occa-  ' i 
sional  giddiness  and  headache  : attributable,  I | 
have  not  the  least  doubt,  to  the  absence  of  ^ > 
streets.  There  is  an  idea  here,  too,  that  people  | ! 
are  occasionally  made  despondent  and  sluggish  ' i 
in  their  spirits  by  this  great  mass  of  still  water,  j 1 
lake  Leman.  At  any  rate  I have  been  very  im-  1 
comfortable  : at  any  rate  I am,  I hope,  greatly 
better  : and  (lastly)  at  any  rate  I hope  and  trust, 
now,  the  Christmas  book  will  come  in  due 
course  ! ! I have  had  three  very  good  days’ 
work  at  Geneva,  and  trust  I may  finish  the  j 
second  part  (the  third  is  the  shortest)  by  this 
day  week.  Whenever  I finish  it,  I will  send  you 


LITERARY  LABOUR  AT  LAUSANNE. 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


the  first  two  together.  I do  not  think  they  can 
begin  to  illustrate  it,  until  the  third  arrives ; for 
it  is  a single-minded  story,  as  it  were,  and  an 
artist  should  know  the  end  : which  I don’t  think 
very  likely,  unless  he  reads  it.”  Then,  after 
relating  a superhuman  effort  he  was  making  to 
lodge  his  visitors  in  his  doll’s  house  (“  I didn’t 
like  the  idea  of  turning  them  out  in  the  night. 
It  is  so  dark  in  these  lanes  and  groves,  when  the 
moon’s  not  bright  ”),  he  sketched  for  me  what 
he  possibly  might,  and  really  did,  accomplish. 
He  would  by  great  effort  finish  the  small  book 
on  the  2 0th ; would  fly  to  Geneva  for  a week  to 
work  a little  at  Domhcy,  if  he  felt  “ pretty 
sound;”  in  any  case  would  finish  his  number 
three  by  the  loth  of  November;  and  on  that  day 
would  start  for  Paris  : “ so  that,  instead  of  rest- 
ing unprofitably  here,  I shall  be  using  my  inter- 
val of  idleness  to  make  the  journey  and  get  into 
a new  house,  and  shall  hope  so  to  put  a pinch 
of  salt  on  the  tail  of  the  sliding  number  in  ad- 
vance  I am  horrified  at  the  idea  of  get- 

ting the  blues  (and  bloodshots)  again.”  Though 
I did  not  then  know  how  gravely  ill  he  had 
been,  I was  fain  to  remind  him  that  it  was  bad 
economy  to  make  business  out  of  rest  itself ; but 
I received  prompt  confirmation  that  all  was 
falling  out  as  he  wished.  The  Talfourds  stayed 
two  days  : “ and  I think  they  were  very  happy. 
Pie  was  in  his  best  aspect ; the  manner  so  well 
known  to  us,  not  the  less  loveable  for  being 
laughable  ; and  if  you  could  have  seen  him  going 
round  and  round  the  coach  that  brought  them, 
as  a preliminary  to  paying  the  voiturier  to  whom 
he  couldn’t  speak,  in  a currency  he  didn’t  un- 
derstand, you  never  would  have  forgotten  it.” 
His  friends  left  Lausanne  on  the  5th  ; and  five 
days  later  he  sent  me  two  thirds  of  the  manu- 
script of  his  Christmas  book. 


VI. 

GENEVESE  REVOLUTION  AND  BATTLE  OF 
LIFE. 

1846. 

SEND  you  in  twelve  letters,  count- 
ing this  as  one,  the  first  two  parts 
(thirty-five  slips)  of  the  Christmas 
book.  I have  two  present  anxie- 
ties respecting  it.  One  to  know 
that  you  have  received  it  safely ; 
^ and  the  second  to  know  how  it  strikes 
o'  you.  Be  sure  you  read  the  first  and 

second  parts  together There  seems  to 

me  to  be  interest  in  it,  and  a jiretty  idea ; and  it 


is  unlike  the  others There  will  be  some 

minor  points  for  consideration : as,  the  neces- 
sity for  some  slight  alteration  in  one  or  two  of 
the  Doctor’s  speeches  in  the  first  part;  and 
whether  it  should  be  called  ‘ The  Battle  of  Life. 
A Love  Story  ’ — to  express  both  a love  story  in 
the  common  acceptation  of  the  phrase,  and  also 
a story  of  love ; with  one  or  two  other  things  of 
that  sort.  We  can  moot  these  by  and  by.  I 
made  a tremendous  day’s  work  of  it  yesterday 
and  was  horribly  excited — so  I am  going  to 
rush  out,  as  fast  as  I can  : being  a little  used 

up,  and  sick But  never  say  die.  I 

have  been  to  the  glass  to  look  at  my  eye. 
Pretty  bright ! ” 

I made  it  brighter  next  day  by  telling  him 
that  the  first  number  of  Domhcy  had  outstripped 
in  sale  the  first  of  Chiczzlewit  by  more  than 
twelve  thousand  copies ; and  his  next  letter, 
sending  the  close  of  his  little  tale,  showed  his 
need  of  the  comfort  my  pleasant  news  had 
given  him.  “ I really  do  not  know  what  this 
story  is  worth.  I am  so  floored  : wanting  sleeji, 
and  never  having  had  my  head  free  from  it  for 
this  month  past.  I think  there  are  some  places 
in  this  last  part  which  I may  bring  better  toge- 
ther in  the  proof,  and  where  a touch  or  two 
may  be  of  service  ; particularly  in  the  scene 
between  Craggs  and  Rlichael  AVarden,  where,  as 
it  stands,  the  interest  seems  anticipated.  But  I 
shall  have  the  benefit  of  your  suggestions,  and 
my  own  then  cooler  head,  I hope ; and  I will 
be  very  careful  with  the  proofs,  and  keep  them 

by  me  as  long  as  I can Mr.  Britain 

must  have  another  Christian  name,  then  ? 
‘Aunt  Martha’  is  the  Sally  of  whom  the  Doctor 
speaks  in  the  first  part.  Martha  is  a better 
name.  AVhat  do  you  think  of  the  concluding 
paragraph  ? Would  you  leave  it  for  happiness’ 

sake?  It  is  merely  experimental I am 

flying  to  Geneva  to-morrow  morning.”  (That 
was  on  the  18th  of  October;  and  on  the  20th 
he  wrote  from  Geneva.)  “We  came  here  yes- 
terday, and  we  shall  probably  remain  until 
Katey’s  birthday,  which  is  next  Thursday  week. 
I shall  fall  to  work  on  number  three  of  Domhcy 
as  soon  as  I can.  At  present  I am  the  worse 
for  wear,  but  nothing  like  as  much  so  as  I e.x- 
pectcd  to  be  on  Sunday  last.  I had  not  been 
able  to  sleep  for  some  time,  and  had  been  ham- 
mering away,  morning,  noon,  and  night.  A 
bottle  of  hock  on  Monday,  when  I'llliotson 
dined  with  us  (he  went  away  homeward  yester- 
day morning),  did  me  a world  of  good ; the 
change  comes  in  the  very  nick  ot  time  ; and  I 

feel  in  Dombeian  spirits  already But  I 

have  still  rather  a damaged  head,  aching  a good 


GENE  VESE  RE  VOL  UTION  AND  BA  TTLE  OE  LI  EE.  2 1 1 


(.leal  occasionally,  as  it  is  doing  now,  though  I 

have  not  been  cu5)])ed — yet I dreamed 

all  last  week  that  the  Baltic  of  Life  was  a series 
of  chambers  impossible  to  be  got  to  rights  or 
got  out  of,  through  which  I wandered  drearily 
ajl  night.  On  Saturday  night  I don’t  think  I 
slept  an  hour.  I was  perpetually  roaming 
through  the  story,  and  endeavouring  to  dove- 
tail the  revolution  here  into  the  plot.  The 
mental  distress  quite  horrible.” 

Of  the  “ revolution  ” he  had  written  to  me  a 
week  before,  from  Lausanne ; where  the  news 
had  just  reached  them,  that  upon  the  Federal 
Diet  decreeing  the  expulsion  of  the  Jesuits,  the 
Roman  Catholic  cantons  had  risen  against  the 
decree,  the  result  being  that  the  Protestants  had 
deposed  the  grand  council  and  established  a 
provisional  government,  dissolving  the  Catholic 
league.  His  interest  in  this,  and  prompt  seizure 
of  what  really  was  brought  into  issue  by  the 
conflict,  is  every  way  characteristic  of  Dickens. 

“ You  will  know,”  he  had  written  from  Lausanne 
on  the  nth  of  October,  “long  before  you  get 
* this,  all  about  the  Revolution  at  Geneva.  There 
were  stories  of  plots  against  the  Government 
wdien  I was  there,  but  I didn’t  believe  them; 
for  all  sorts  of  lies  are  always  afloat  against  the 
radicals,  and  wherever  there  is  a consul  from  a * 
I Catholic  Power  the  most  monstrous  fictions  are 
in  perpetual  circulation  against  them  : as  in  this 
[ very  place,  where  the  Sardinian  consul  was 
I gravely  whispering  the  other  day  that  a society 
called  the  Homicides  had  been  formed,  whereof 
the  president  of  the  council  of  state,  the  O’Con- 
nell of  Switzerland  and  a clever  fellow,  was  a 
member ; wdio  were  sworn  on  skulls  anci  cross- 
bones  to  exterminate  men  of  property  and  so 
forth.  There  was  a great  stir  here  in  Lausanne, 
on  the  day  of  the  fight  in  Geneva.  We  heard 
the  guns  (they  shook  this  house)  all  day ; and 
seven  hundred  men  marched  out  of  the  towm 
to  go  and  help  the  radical  party — arriving  at 
Geneva  just  after  it  was  all  over.  There  is  no 
doubt  they  had  received  secret  help  from  Lau- 
sanne ; for  a powder  barrel,  found  by  some  of 
the  Genevese  populace  with  ‘ Canton  de  Vaud  ’ 
painted  on  it,  was  carried  on  a pole  about  the 
streets  as  a standard,  to  show  that  they  were 
sympathized  with  by  friends  outside.  It  was  a 
poor  mean  fight  enough,  I am  told  by  Lord 
Vernon,  who  was  present  and  who  was  with  us 
! last  night.  The  Government  was  afraid  ; hav- 
ing no  confidence  whatever,  I dare  say,  in  its 
own  soldiers ; and  the  cannon  were  fired  every- 
where except  at  the  opposite  party,  who  (I  mean 
the  revolutionists)  had  barricaded  a bridge  with 
an  omnibus  only,  and  certainly  in  the  beginning 


might  have  been  turned  with  ease.  The  pre- 
cision of  the  common  men  with  the  rifle  was 
especially  shown  by  a small  jiarty  of  five,  who 
waited  on  the  ramparts  near  one  of  the  gates  of 
the  town,  to  turn  a body  of  soldiery  who  were 
coming  in  to  the  Government  assistance.  'I'hey 
picked  out  every  officer  and  struck  him  down 
instantly,  the  moment  the  party  appeared  ; there 
were  three  or  four  of  them;  upon  which  the 
soldiers  gravely  turned  round  and  walked  off. 
I dare  say  there  are  not  fifty  men  in  Lausanne 
who  wouldn’t  click  your  card  off  a target  a hun- 
dred and  fifty  yards  away,  at  least.  I have  seen 
them,  time  after  time,  fire  across  a great  ravine 
as  wide  as  the  ornamental  ground  in  St.  Javnes’s- 
park,  and  never  miss  the  bull’s-eye. 

“ It  is  a horribly  ungentlemanly  thing  to  say 
here,  though  I do  say  it  without  the  least  reserve 
— but  my  sympathy  is  all  with  the  radicals.  I 
don’t  know  any  subject  on  which  this  indomi- 
table people  have  so  good  a right  to  a strong 
feeling  as  Catholicity— if  not  as  a religion, 
clearly  as  a means  of  social  degradation.  They 
know  what  it  is.  They  live  close  to  it.  They 
have  Italy  beyond  their  mountains.  They  can 
compare  the  effect  of  the  two  systems  at  any 
time  in  their  own  valleys ; and  their  dread  of 
it,  and  their  horror  of  the  introduction  of  Catho- 
lic priests  and  emissaries  into  their  towns,  seem 
to  me  the  most  rational  feeling  in  the  world. 
Apart  from  this,  you  have  no  conception  of  the 
preposterous,  insolent  little  aristocracy  of  Ge- 
neva : the  most  ridiculous  caricature  the  fancy 
can  suggest  of  what  we  know  in  England.  I 
was  talking  to  two  famous  gentlemen  (very  in- 
telligent men)  of  that  place,  not  long  ago,  who 
came  over  to  invite  me  to  a sort  of  reception 
there — which  I declined.  Really  their  talk 
about  ‘ the  people  ’ and  ‘ the  masses,’  and  the 
necessity  they  would  shortly  be  under  of  shoot- 
ing a few  of  them  as  an  example  for  the  rest, 
was  a kind  of  monstrosity  one  might  have  heard 
at  Genoa.  The  audacious  insolence  and  con- 
tempt of  the  people  l^y  their  newspapers,  too,  is 
quite  absurd.  It  is  difficult  to  believe  that  men 
of  sense  can  be  such  donkeys  politically.  It 
was  precisely  such  a state  of  things  that  brought 
about  the  change  in  Lausanne.  There  was  a 
most  respectful  petition  presented  on  the  Jesuit 
question,  signed  by  its  tens  of  thousands  of 
small  farmers ; the  regular  peasants  of  the  can- 
ton, all  splendidly  taught  in  public  schools,  and 
intellectually  as  well  as  physically  a most  re- 
markable body  of  labouring  men.  This  docu- 
ment is  treated  by  the  gentlemanly  party  with 
the  most  sublime  contempt,  and  the  signatures 
are  said  to  be  the  signatures  of  ‘ the  rabble.’ 


2 12 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Upon  which,  each  man  of  the  rabble  shoulders 
his  rifle,  and  walks  in  upon  a given  day  agreed 
upon  among  them  to  Lausanne ; and  the  gen- 
tlemanly party  walk  out  without  striking  a 
blow.”  . 

Sucli  traces  of  the  “ revolution  ” as  he  found 
upon  his  present  visit  to  Geneva  he  described 
in  writing  to  me  from  the  hotel  de  I’Ecu  on  the 
2oth  of  October.  “ You  never  would  suppose 
from  the  look  of  this  town  that  there  had  been 
anything  revolutionary  going  on.  Over  the 
window  of  my  old  bedroom  there  is  a great 
hole  made  by  a cannon-ball  in  the  house-front ; 
and  two  of  the  bridges  are  under  repair.  But 
these  are  small  tokens  which  anything  else 
might  have  brought  about  as  well.  The  people 
are  all  at  work.  The  little  streets  are  rife  with 
every  sight  and  sound  of  industry  ; the  place  is 
as  quiet  by  ten  o’clock  as  Lincoln’s-inn-fields  • 
and  the  only  outward  and  visible  sign  of  public 
interest  in  political  events  is  a little  group  at 
every  street  corner,  reading  a public  announce- 
ment from  the  new  Government  of  the  forth- 
coming election  of  state-officers,  in  which  the 
people  are  reminded  of  their  importance  as  a 
republican  institution,  and  desired  to  bear  in 
mind  their  dignity  in  all  their  proceedings. 
Nothing  very  violent  or  bad  could  go  on  with  a 
community  so  well  educated  as  this.  It  is  the 
best  antidote  to  American  e.xperiences,  con- 
ceivable. As  to  the  nonsense  ‘ the  gentlemanly 
interest  ’ talk  about,  their  opposition  to  property 
and  so  forth,  there  never  was  such  mortal  ab- 
surdity. One  of  the  principal  leaders  in  the 
late  movement  has  a stock  of  watches  and 
jewellery  here  of  immense  value — and  had, 
during  the  disturbance — perfectly  unprotected. 
James  Fazy  has  a rich  house  and  a valuable 
collection  of  pictures  ; and,  I will  be  bound  to 
say,  twice  as  much  to  lose  as  half  the  conserva- 
tive declaimers  put  together.  This  house,  the 
liberal  one,  is  one  of  the  most  richly  furnished 
and  luxurious  hotels  on  the  continent.  And  if 
I were  a Swiss  with  a hundred  thousand  pounds, 
I would  be  as  steady  against  the  Catholic  can- 
tons and  the  propagation  of  Jesuitism  as  any 
radical  among  ’em  : believing  the  dissemination 
of  Catholicity  to  be  the  most  horrible  means  of 
political  and  social  degradation  left  in  the  world. 
Which  these  people,  thoroughly  well  educated, 

know  perfectly The  boys  of  Geneva 

were  very  useful  in  bringing  materials  for  the 
construction  of  the  barricades  on  the  bridges ; 
and  the  enclosed  song  may  amuse  you.  They 
sing  it  to  a tune  that  dates  from  the  great 
French  revolution — a very  good  one.” 

But  revolutions  may  be  small  as  well  as  their 


heroes,  and  while  he  thus  was  sending  me  his 
Gamin  de  Geneve  I was  sending  him  news  of  a 
sudden  change  in  AVhitefriars  which  had  quite 
as  vivid  interest  for  him.  Not  much  could  be 
told  him  at  first,  but  his  curiosity  instantly 
arose  to  fever  pitch.  “ In  reference  to  that 
Daily  Naas  revolution,”  he  wrote  from  Geneva 
on  the  26th,  “ I have  been  walking  and  wander- 
ing all  day  through  a perfect  Miss  Burney’s 
Vauxhall  of  conjectural  dark  walks.  Heaven 
send  you  enlighten  me  fully  on  Wednesday,  or 
number  three  will  suffer  ! ” Two  days  later  he 
resumed,  as  he  was  beginning  his  journey  back 
to  Lausanne.  “ I am  in  a great  state  of  excite- 
ment on  accomrt  of  your  intelligence,  and  des- 
perately anxious  to  know  all  about  it.  I shall 
be  put  out  to  an  unspeakable  extent  if  I don’t 
find  your  letter  awaiting  me.  God  knows  there 
has  been  small  comfort  for  either  of  us  in  the 
D.  Nil,  nine  months.”  There  was  not  much  to 
tell  then,  and  there  is  less  now ; but  at  last  the 
discomfort  was  over  for  us  both,  as  I had  been 
unable  to  reconcile  myself  to  a longer  continu- 
ance of  the  service  I had  given  in  Whitefriars 
since  he  quitted  it.  The  subject  may  be  left 
with  the  remark  made  upon  it  in  his  first  letter 
after  returning  to  Rosemont.  “ I certainly  am 
* very  glad  of  the  result  of  the  Daily  A^ews  busi- 
ness, though  my  gladness  is  dashed  with  melan- 
choly to  think  that  you  should  have  toiled  there 
so  long,  to  so  little  purpose.  I escaped  more 
easily.  However,  it  is  all  passed  now.  As  to 
the  undoubted  necessity  of  the  course  you  took, 

I have  not  a grain  of  question  in  my  mind. 
That,  being  what  you  are,  you  had  only  one 
course  to  take  and  have  taken  it,  I no  more 
doubt  than  that  the  Old  Bailey  is  not  West- 
minster Abbey.  In  the  utmost  sum  at  which 
you  value  yourself,  you  were  bound  to  leave  ; j 
and  now  you  kave  left,  you  will  come  to  Paris, 
and  there,  and  at  home  again,  we’ll  have,  please 
God,  the  old  kind  of  evenings  and  the  old  life 
again,  as  it  used  to  be  before  those  daily  nooses 
caught  us  by  the  legs,  and  sometimes  tripped  us 
up.  Make  a vow  (as  I have  done)  never  to  go 
down  that  court  with  the  little  news-shop  at  the  ! 
corner,  any  more,  and  let  us  swear  by  Jack  j 

Straw  as  in  the  ancient  times I am  be-  j 

ginning  to  get  over  my  sorrow  for  your  niglits  i 

up  aloft  in  Whitefriars,  and  to  feel  nothing  but  i 

happiness  in  the  contemplation  of  your  enfran- 
chisement. God  bless  you  ! ” 

The  time  was  now  shortening  for  him  at  Lau- 
sanne ; but  before  my  sketches  of  his  pleasant 
days  there  close,  the  little  story  of  his  Christmas 
book  may  be  made  complete  by  a few  extracts 
from  the  letters  that  followed  immediately  upon 


GENEVESE  REVOLUTION  AND  BATTLE  OF  LIFE. 


213 


the  departure  of  the  Talfourds.  Without  com- 
ment they  will  explain  its  closing  touches,  his 
own  consciousness  of  the  difficulties  in  working 
out  the  tale  within  limits  too  confined  not  to 
render  its  proper  development  imperfect,  and 
his  ready  tact  in  dealing  with  objection  and 
suggestion  from  without.  His  condition  while 
Avriting  it  did  not  warrant  me  in  pressing  what  I 
might  otherwise  have  thought  necessary : but  as 
the  little  story  finally  left  his  hands,  it  had  points 
not  unworthy  of  him  ; and  a sketch  of  its  design 
will  render  the  fragments  from  his  letters  more 
intelligible.  I read  it  lately  with  a sense  that 
its  general  tone  of  quiet  beauty  deserved  well  the 
praise  which  Jeffrey  in  those  days  had  given  it. 
■“  I like  and  admire  the  Battle  extremely,”  he 
said  in  a letter  on  its  publication,  sent  me  by 
Dickens  and  not  included  in  Lord  Cockburn’s 
hlemoir.  “ It  is  better  than  any  other  man  alive 
could  have  written,  and  has  passages  as  fine  as 
anything  that  ever  came  from  the  man  himself. 
The  dance  of  the  sisters  in  that  autumn  orchard 
is  of  itself  Avorth  a dozen  inferior  tales,  and  their 
reunion  at  the  close,  and  indeed  all  the  serious 
parts,  are  beautiful,  some  traits  of  Clemency 
charming.” 

Yet  it  Avas  probably  here  the  fact,  as  Avith  the 
Chimes,  that  the  serious  parts  were  too  much 
interwoven  Avith  the  tale  to  render  the  subject 
altogether  suitable  to  the  old  mirth-bringing 
season ; but  this  had  also  some  advantages. 
The  story  is  all  about  two  sisters,  the  younger 
of  whom,  Marion,  sacrifices  her  own  affection  to 
give  happiness  to  the  elder  sister,  Grace.  But 
Grace  had  already  made  the  same  sacrifice  for 
this  younger  sister ; life’s  first  and  hardest  battle 
had  been  Avon  by  her  before  the  incidents  begin  ; 
and  Avhen  she  is  first  seen,  she  is  busying  herself 
to  bring  about  her  sister’s  marriage  Avith  Alfred 
Heathfield,  Avhom  she  has  herself  loved,  and 
Avhom  she  has  kept  Avholly  unconscious,  by  a 
quiet  change  in  her  bearing  to  him,  of  Avhat  his 
own  still  disengaged  heart  Avould  certainly  not 
have  rejected.  Marion,  hoAvever,  had  earlier 
discovered  this,  though  it  is  not  until  her  victory 
over  herself  that  Alfred  knoAvs  it ; and  mean- 
Avhile  he  is  become  her  betrothed.  The  sisters 
thus  shoAvn  at  the  opening,  one  believing  her 
love  undiscovered  and  the  other  bent  for  the 
sake  of  that  love  on  surrendering  her  own,  each 
practising  concealment  and  both  unselfishly  true, 
form  a pretty  and  tender  picture.  The  second  ’ 
part  is  intended  to  give  to  Marion’s  flight  the 
character  of  an  elopement ; and  so  to  manage 
this  as  to  shoAv  her  all  the  time  unchanged  to 
the  man  she  is  pledged  to,  yet  flying  from,  Avas 
the  author’s  difficulty.  One  Michael  Warden  is 
Life  of  Charles  Dickens,  15. 


the  dens  ex  machina  by  Avhom  it  is  solved,  hardly 
with  the  usual  skill;  but  there  is  much  art  in 
rendering  his  pretensions  to  the  hand  of  Marion, 
Avhose  husband  he  becomes  after  an  interval  of 
years,  the  means  of  closing  against  him  all  hope 
of  success,  in  the  very  hour  when  her  oAvn  act 
might  seem  to  be  opening  it  to  him.  During  the 
same  interval  Grace,  believing  Marion  to  be 
gone  Avith  Warden,  becomes  Alfred’s  Avife ; and 
not  until  reunion  after  six  years’  absence  is  the 
truth  entirely  knoAvn  to  her.  The  struggle,  to 
all  of  them,  has  been  filled  and  chastened  with 
sorroAv ; but  joy  revisits  them  at  its  close.  Hearts 
are  not  broken  by  the  duties  laid  upon  them ; 
nor  is  life  shown  to  be  such  a perishable  holiday, 
that  amidst  noble  sorrow  and  generous  self- 
denial  it  must  lose  its  capacity  for  happiness. 
The  tale  thus  justifies  its  place  in  the  Christmas 
series.  What  Jeffrey  says  of  Clemency,  too,  may 
suggest  another  word.  The  story  would  not  be 
Dickens’s  if  Ave  could  not  discover  in  it  the  poAver 
peculiar  to  him  of  presenting  the  commonest- 
objects  Avith  freshness  and  beauty,  of  detecting 
in  the  homeliest  forms  of  life  much  of  its  rarest 
loveliness,  and  of  springing  easily  upward  from 
everyday  realities  into  regions  of  imaginative 
thought.  To  this  happiest  direction  of  his  art. 
Clemency  and  her  husband  render  nerv  tribute ; 
and  in  her  more  especially,  once  again,  Ave  recog- 
nize one  of  those  true  souls  Avho  fill  so  large  a 
space  in  his  writings,  for  Avhom  the  loAvest  seats 
at  life’s  feast  are  commonly  kept,  but  Avhom  he 
moves  and  Avelcomes  to  a more  fitting  place 
among  the  prized  and  honoured  at  the  upper  tables. 

“ I Avonder  whether  you  foresaAv  the  end  of 
the  Christmas  book ! There  are  tAvo  or  three 
places  in  Avhich  I can  make  it  prettier,  I think, 

by  slight  alterations I trust  to  Heaven 

you  may  like  it.  What  an  affecting  story  I could 
have  made  of  it  in  one  octavo  volume.  Oh  to 
think  of  the  printers  transforming  my  kindly 
cynical  old  father  into  Doctor  Taddler  ! ” (28th 
of  October.)  Here  may  be  interposed  extracts 
from  letters  of  two  years’  later  date  to  Sir  Edward 
Lytton.  “What  you  said  of  the  Battle  of  Life 
gave  me  great  pleasure.  I was  thoroughly 
Avretched  at  having  to  use  the  idea  for  so  short 
a story.  I did  not  see  its  full  capacity  until  it 
Avas  too  late  to  think  of  another  subject;  and  I 
have  ahvays  felt  that  I might  have  done  a great 
deal  Avith  it,  if  I had  taken  it  for  the  ground- 
Avork  of  a more  extended  book.”  (loth  April, 
1848.)  “But  for  an  insuperable  aversion  I have 
to  trying  back  in  such  a case,  I should  certainly 
forge  that  bit  of  metal  again,  as  you  suggest. 
One  of  these  days  perhaps.”  ....  (4th  of 
August,  1848.) 

423 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


214 


“ Do  you  think  it  worth  while,  in  the  illustra- 
tions, to  throw  the  period  back  at  all  for  the 
sake  of  anything  good  in  the  costume  ? The 
story  may  have  happened  at  any  time  within  a 
hundred  years.  Is  it  worth  having  coats  and 
gowns  of  dear  old  Goldsmith’s  day  ? or  there- 
abouts ? I really  don’t  know  what  to  say.  The 
probability  is,  if  it  has  not  occurred  to  you  or 
to  the  artists,  that  it  is  hardly  worth  considering ; 
but  I ease  myself  of  it  by  throwing  it  out  to 
you.  It  may  be  already  too  late,  or  you  may 
see  reason  to  think  it  best  to  ‘stick  to  the  last' 
(I  feel  it  necessary  to  italicize  the  joke),  and 
abide  by  the  ladies’  and  gentlemen’s  spring  and 
winter  fashions  of  this  time.  Whatever  you  think 
best,  in  this  as  in  all  other  things,  is  best,  I am 

sure I would  go,  in  the  illustrations,  for 

‘ beauty  ’ as  much  as  possible ; and  I should 
like  each  part  to  have  a general  illustration  to 
it  at  the  beginning,  shadowing  out  its  drift  and 
bearing : much  as  Browne  goes  at  that  kind  of 
thing  on  Do7ubey  covers.  I don’t  think  I should 
fetter  your  discretion  in  the  matter  farther.  The 
better  it  is  illustrated,  the  better  I shall  be  pleased 
of  course.”  (29th  of  October.) 

“ ....  I only  write  to  say  that  it  is  of  no 
use  my  writing  at  length  until  I have  heard 
from  you;  and  that  I will  wait  until  I shall 
have  read  your  promised  communication  (as 
my  father  would  call  it)  to-morrow.  I have 
glanced  over  the  proofs  of  the  last  part  and 
•really  don’t  wonder  that  the  marriage  of  Grace 
and  Alfred  should  seem  rather  unsatisfactory  to 
you  : some  of  the  most  extravagant  mistakes 
occurring  in  Clemency’s  account  to  Warden. 
Whatever  is  done  about  that  must  be  done 
with  the  lightest  hand,  for  the  reader  must  take 
something  for  granted ; but  I think  it  next  to 
impossible,  without  dreadful  injury  to  the  effect, 
to  introduce  a scene  between  Marion  and 
Michael.  The  introduction  must  be  in  the 
scene  between  the  sisters,  and  must  be  put, 
mainly,  into  the  mouth  of  Grace.  Rely  upon  it 
there  is  no  other  way,  in  keeping  with  the 
spirit  of  the  tale.  With  this  amendment,  and  a 
touch  here  and  there  in  the  last  part  (I  know 
exactly  where  they  will  come  best),  I think  it 
may  be  pretty  and  affecting,  and  comfortable 
too.”  . . . (31st  of  October.) 

“ ....  I shall  hope  to  touch  upon  the 
Christmas  book  as  soon  as  I get  your  opinion. 
I wouldn’t  do  it  without.  I am  delighted  to 
hear  of  noble  old  Stanny.  Give  my  love  to 
him,  and  tell  him  I think  of  turning  Catholic. 
It  strikes  me  (it  may  have  struck  you,  perhaps) 
that  another  good  place  for  introducing  a few 
lines  of  dialogue,  is  at  the  beginning  of  the 


scene  between  Grace  and  her  husband,  where- 
he  speaks  about  the  messenger  at  the  gate.” 
(4th  of  November.) 

“Before  I reply  to  your  questions  I wish  to 
remark  generally  of  the  third  part  that  all  the 
passion  that  can  be  got  into  it,  through  my 
interpretation  at  all  events,  is  there.  I know 
that,  by  what  it  cost  me ; and  I take  it  to  be,  as 
a question  of  art  and  interest,  in  the  very  nature 
of  the  story  that  it  should  move  at  a swift  pace 
after  the  sisters  are  in  each  other’s  arms  again. 
Anything  after  that  would  drag  like  lead,  and 

must Now  for  your  questions.  I don’t 

think  any  little  scene  with  Marion  and  anybody 
can  prepare  the  way  for  the  last  paragraph  of 
the  tale  : I don’t  think  anything  but  a printer’s 
line  ca7i  go  between  it  and  Warden’s  speech.  A 
less  period  than  ten  years?  Yes.  I see  no 
objection  to  six.  I have  no  doubt  you  are 
right.  Any  word  from  Alfred  in  his  misery  ? 
Impossible : you  might  as  well  try  to  speak  to 
somebody  in  an  express  train.  The  preparation 
for  his  change  is  in  the  first  part,  and  he  kneels 
down  beside  her  in  that  return  scene.  He  is 
left  alone  with  her,  as  it  were,  in  the  world.  I 
am  quite  confident  it  is  wholly  impossible  for 

me  to  alter  that But  (keep  your  eye  on  ! 

me)  when  Marion  went  away,  she  left  a letter  I 

for  Grace  in  which  she  charged  her  to  encou- 
rage the  love  that  Alfred  would  conceive  for  her, 
and  FOREWARNED  her  that  years  would  pass 
before  they  met  again,  &c.,  &c.  Tlris  coming 
out  in  the  scene  between  the  sisters,  and  some- 
thing like  it  being  expressed  in  the  opening  of 
the  little  scene  between  Grace  and  her  husband 
before  the  messenger  at  the  gate,  will  make  (I 
hope)  a prodigious  difference ; and  I will  try  to 
put  in  something  with  Aunt  Martha  and  the 
Doctor  that  shall  carry  the  tale  back  more  dis- 
tinctly and  unmistakeably  to  the  battle-ground. 

I hope  to  make  these  alterations  next  week, 
and  to  send  the  third  part  back  to  you  before 
I leave  here.  If  you  think  it  can  still  be  im- 
proved after  that,  say  so  to  me  in  Baris  and  I I 
will  go  at  it  again,  I wouldn’t  have  it  limp,  if  | 
it  can  fly.  I say  nothing  to  you  of  a great  deal  j 
of  this  being  already  expressed  in  the  sentiment  | 
of  the  beginning,  because  your  delicate  percep- 
tion knows  all  that  already.  Observe  for  the 
artists.  Grace  will  now  only  have  07ic  child — 
little  Marion.”  ....  (At  night,  on  same  day.) 

. . . . “ You  recollect  that  I asked  you  to  reail 
it  all  together,  for  I knew  that  I was  working  for 
that?  But  I have  no  doubt  ol your  doubts,  anil 

will  do  what  I have  said I had  thought 

of  marking  the  time  in  the  little  story,  and  will 
do  so Think,  once  more,  of  the  period 


GENEVESE  EEVOLUTION  ANE>  BATTLE  OF  LI  EE. 


215 


between  the  second  and  third  parts.  I will  do 
the  same.”  (7th  of  November.) 

“ I hope  you  will  think  the  third  part  (when 
you  read  it  in  type  with  these  amendments)  very 
much  improved.  I think  it  so.  If  there  should 
still  be  anything  wanting,  in  your  opinion,  pray 
suggest  it  to  me  in  Paris.  I am  bent  on  having 

it  right,  if  I can If  in  going  over  the 

proofs  you  find  the  tendency  to  blank  verse  (I 
cannot  help  it,  when  I am  very  much  in  earnest) 
too  strong,  knock  out  a word’s  brains  here  arfd 
there.”  (13th  of  November.  Sending  the  proofs 
back.) 

“ . ; . . Your  Christmas  book  illustration- 
news  makes  me  jump  for  joy.  I will  write  you 
at  length  to-morrow.  I should  like  this  dedica- 
tion : This  Christmas  Book  is  cordially  inscribed 
To  my  English  Friends  in  Switzerland.  Just 
those  two  lines  and  nothing  more.  When  I get 
the  proofs  again  I thinic  I may  manage  another 
word  or  two  about  the  battle-field,  with  advan- 
tage. I am  glad  you  like  the  alterations.  I 
feel  that  they  make  it  complete,  and  that  it 
would  have  been  incomplete  without  your  sug- 
gestions.” (21st  of  November.  From  Paris.) 

I had  managed,  as  a glad  surprise  for  him,  to 
enlist  both  Stanfield  and  Maclise  in  the  illus- 
tration of  the  story,  in  addition  to  the  distin- 
guished artists  whom  the  publishers  had  engaged 
for  it.  Leech  and  Richard  Doyle  : and  among 
the  subjects  contributed  by  Stanfield  are  three 
morsels  of  English  landscape  which  had  a sin- 
gular charm  for  Dickens  at  the  time,  and  seem 
to  me  still  of  their  kind  quite  faultless.  I may 
add  a curious  fact,  never  mentioned  until  now. 
In  the  illustration  which  closes  the  second  part 
of  the  story,  where  the  festivities  to  welcome  the 
bridegroom  at  the  top  of  the  page  contrast  with 
the  flight  of  the  bridegroom  represented  below. 
Leech  made  the  mistake  of  supposing  that 
Michael  Warden  had  taken  part  in  the  elope- 
ment, and  has  introduced  his  figure  with  that  of 
Marion.  We  did  not  discover  this  until  too 
late  for  remedy,  the  publication  having  then 
been  delayed  expressly  for  these  drawings,  to 
the  utmost  limit ; and  it  is  highly  characteristic 
of  Dickens,  and  of  the  true  regard  he  had  for 
this  fine  artist,  that,  knowing  the  pain  he  must 
give  in  such  circumstances  by  objection  or  com- 
plaint, he  preferred  to  pass  it  silently.  Nobody 
made  remark  upon  it,  and  there  the  illus- 
tration still  stands  ; but  any  one  who  reads 
the  tale  carefully  will  at  once  perceive  what 
havoc  it  makes  of  one  of  the  most  delicate  turns 
in  it. 

“ When  I first  saw  it,  it  was  with  a horror  and 
agony  not  to  be  expressed.  Of  course  I need 


not  tell  you,  my  dear  fellow.  Warden  has  no 
business  in  the  elopement  scene.  Jle  was  never 
there ! In  the  first  hot  sweat  of  this  surprise 
and  novelty,  I was  going  to  implore  the  printing 
of  that  sheet  to  be  stopped,  and  the  figure  taken 
out  of  the  block.  But  when  I thought  of  the 
pain  this  might  give  to  our  kind-hearted  Leech ; 
and  that  what  is  such  a monstrous  enormity  to 
me,  as  never  having  entered  my  brain,  may  not 
so  present  itself  to  others,  I became  more  com- 
posed ; though  the  fact  is  wonderful  to  me.  No 
doubt  a great  number  of  copies  will  be  printed 
by  the  time  this  reaches  you,  and  therefore  I 
shall  take  it  for  granted  that  it  stands  as  it  is. 
Leech  otherwise  is  very  good,  and  the  illustra- 
tions, altogether  are  by  far  the  best  that  have 
been  done  for  any  of  the  Christmas  books.  You 
know  how  I build  up  temples  in  ray  mind  that 
are  not  made  with  hands  (or  expressed  with  pen 
and  ink,  I am  afraid),  and  how  liable  I am  to  be 
disappointed  in  these  things.  But  I really  am 
not  disappointed  in  this  case.  Quietness  and 
beauty  are  preserved  throughout.  Say  every- 
thing to  Mac  and  Stanny,  more  than  everything  ' 
It  is  a delight  to  look  at  these  little  landscapes 
of  the  dear  old  boy.  How'  gentle  and  elegant, 
and  yet  how  manly  and  vigorous,  they  are  ! I 
have  a perfect  joy  in  them.” 

Of  the  few  days  that  remained  of  his  Lausanne 
life,  before  he  journeyed  to  Paris,  there  is  not 
much  requiring  to  be  said.  His  work  had  con- 
tinued during  the  whole  of  the  month  before  de- 
parture to  occupy  him  so  entirely  as  to  leave 
room  for  little  else,  and  even  occasional  letters 
to  very  dear  friends  at  home  were  intermitted. 
Here  are  two  examples  of  many.  “ I will  write 
to  Landor  as  soon  as  I can  possibly  make  time, 
but  I really  am  so  much  at  my  desk  perforce,  and 
so  full  of  work,  whether  I am  there  or  elsewhere, 
between  the  Christmas  book  and  Dombey,  that 
it  is  the  most  difficult  thing  in  the  world  for  me 
to  make  up  my  mind  to  write  a letter  to  any  one 
but  you.  I ought  to  have  written  to  Macready. 
I wish  you  would  tell  him,  with  my  love,  how  I 
am  situated  in  respect  of  pen,  ink,  and  paper. 
One  of  the  Lausanne  papers,  treating  of  free 
trade,  has  been  very  copious  lately  in  its  mention 
of  Lord  Gobden.  Fact ; and  I think  it  a good 
name.”  Then,  as  the  inevitable  time  approached, 
he  cast  about  him  for  such  comfort  as  the  coming 
change  might  bring,  to  set  against  the  sorrow  of 
it ; and  began  to  think  of  Paris,  “ in  a less 
romantic  and  more  homely  contemplation  of 
the  picture,”  as  not  wholly  undesirable.  “ I 
have  no  doubt  that  constant  change,  too,  is 
indispensable  to  me  when  I am  at  work  ; and 
at  times  something  more  than  a doubt  will  force 


2i6  the  life  of  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


itself  upon  me  whether  there  is  not  something  in 
a Swiss  valley  that  disagrees  with  me.  Certainly, 
whenever  I live  in  Switzerland  again,  it  shall  be 
on  the  hill-top.  Something  of  the  goitre  and 
cretin  influence  seems  to  settle  on  my  spirits 
sometimes,  on  the  lower  ground.  How  sorry, 
ah  yes  ! how  sorry  I shall  be  to  leave  the  little 
society  nevertheless.  We  have  been  thoroughly 
good-humoured  and  agreeable  together,  and  I’ll 
always  give  a hurrah  for  the  Swiss  and  Switzer- 
land.” 

One  or  two  English  travelling  by  Lausanne 
had  meanwhile  greeted  him  as  they  were  passing 
home,  and  a few  days  given  him  by  Elliotson 
had  been  an  enjoyment  without  a drawback.  It 
was  now  the  later  autumn,  very  high  winds  were 
coursing  through  the  valley,  and  his  last  letter 
but  one  described  the  change  which  these  ap- 
proaches of  winter  were  making  in  the  scene. 
“ We  have  had  some  tremendous  hurricanes  at 
Lausanne.  It  is  an  e.xtraordinary  place  now  for 
wind,  being  peculiarly  situated  among  mountains 
— between  the  Jura,  and  the  Simplon,  St.  Gothard, 
St.  Bernard,  and  Mont  Blanc  ranges ; and  at 
night  you  would  swear  (lying  in  bed)  you  were 
at  sea.  You  cannot  imagine  wind  blowing  so, 
over  earth.  It  is  very  fine  to  hear.  The  weather 
generally,  however,  has  been  excellent.  There 
is  snovv  on  the  tops  of  nearly  all  the  hills,  but 
none  has  fallen  in  the  valley.  On  a bright  day, 
it  is  quite  hot  between  eleven  and  half- past  two. 
The  nights  and  mornings  are  cold.  Eor  the  last 
two  or  three  days,  it  has  been  thick  weather  ; 
and  I can  see  no  more  of  Mont  Blanc  from 
where  I am  writing  now  than  if  I were  in  Devon- 
shire-terrace,  though  last  week  it  bounded  all 
the  Lausanne  walks.  I w'ould  give  a great  deal 
that  you  could  take  a w’alk  with  me  about 
Lausanne  on  a clear  cold  day.  It  is  impossible 
to  imagine  anything  more  noble  and  beautiful 
than  the  scene ; and  the  autumn  colours  in  the 
foliage  are  more  brilliant  and  vivid  now  than  any 
description  could  convey  to  you.  I took  Elliot- 
son, when  he  was  with  us,  up  to  a ravine  I had 
found  out  in  the  hills  eight  hundred  or  a thou- 
sand feet  deep ! Its  steep  sides  dyed  bright 
yellow,  and  deep  red,  by  the  changing  leaves ; a 
sounding  torrent  roaring  down  below' ; the  lake 
of  Geneva  lying  at  its  foot ; one  enormous  mass 
and  chaos  of  trees  at  its  uirper  end ; and  moun- 
tain piled  on  mountain  in  the  distance,  up  into 
the  sky ! He  really  w'as  struck  silent  by  its 
majesty  and  splendour.” 

He  had  begun  his  third  number  of  Donibcy  on 
the  26th  of  October,  on  the  4th  of  the  following 
month  he  was  half  tlirough  it,  on  the  7th  he  w'as 
in  “ the  agonies  ” of  its  last  chapter,  and  on  the 


9th,  one  day  before  that  proposed  for  its  com- 
pletion, all  was  done.  This  was  marvellously 
rapid  work,  after  what  else  he  had  undergone ; 
but  within  a week,  Monday  the  i6th  being  the 
day  for  departure,  they  were  to  strike  their  tents, 
and  troubled  and  sad  were  the  few  days  thus  left 
him  for  preparation  and  farewell.  He  included 
in  his  leave-taking  his  deaf,  dumb,  and  blind 
friends;  and,  to  use  his  own  homely  phrase,  was 
yet  more  terribly  “ down  in  the  mouth  ” at  taking 
leave  of  his  hearing,  speaking,  and  seeing  friends. 
“ I shall  see  you  soon,  please  God,  and  that  sets 
all  to  rights.  But  I don’t  believe  there  are  many 
dots  on  the  map  of  the  world  where  we  shall 
have  left  such  affectionate  remembrances  behind 
us,  as  in  Lausanne.  It  was  quite  miserable 
this  last  night,  when  we  left  them  at  Haldi- 
mand’s.” 

He  shall  himself  describe  how  they  travelled 
post  to  Paris,  occupying  five  days.  “ We  got 
through  the  journey  charmingly,  though  not 
quite  so  quickly  as  w-e  hoped.  The  children  as 
good  as  usual,  and  even  Skittles  jolly  to  the  last. 
That  name  has  long  superseded  Sampson  Brass, 
by  the  bye.  I call  him  so,  from  something 
skittle-playing  and  public-housey  in  his  counte- 
nance. We  have  been  up  at  five  every  morning, 
and  on  the  road  before  seven.  We  were  three 
carriages  : a sort  of  waggon,  with  a cabriolet 
attached,  for  the  luggage ; a ramshackle  villain- 
ous old  swing  upon  wheels  (hired  at  Geneva), 
for  the  children  ; and  for  ourselves,  that  travel- 
ling chariot  which  I was  so  kind  as  to  bring  here 
for  sale.  It  was  very  cold  indeed  crossing  the 
Jura— nothing  but  fog  and  frost ; but  when  we 
were  out  of  Switzerland  and  across  the  French 
frontier,  it  became  warmer,  and  continued  so. 
We  stopped  at  between  six  and  seven  each 
evening  ; had  two  rather  queer  inns,  wild  French 
country  inns ; but  the  rest  good.  They  were 
three  hours  and  a half  examining  the  luggage  at 
the  frontier  custom-house — atop  of  a mountain, 
in  a hard  and  biting  frost ; where  Anne  ami 
Roche  had  sharp  work  I assure  you,  and  the 
latter  insisted  on  volunteering  the  most  astonish- 
ing and  unnecessary  lies  about  my  books,  for  the 
mere  pleasure  of  deceiving  the  officials.  When 
we  were  out  of  the  mountain  country,  we  came 
at  a good  pace,  but  were  a day  late  in  getting  to 
our  hotel  here.” 

They  were  in  Paris  when  that  was  written  ; 
at  the  hotel  Brighton  ; which  they  had  reached 
in  the  evening  of  Friday  the  20th  of  November. 


THREE  MONTHS  IN  TAR  IS.  217 

VII. 

THREE  MONTHS  IN  PARIS. 

1846 — 1847. 

man  enjoyed  brief  residence  in  a 
^ } hotel  more  than  Dickens,  but 

^ X “several  tons  of  luggage,  other  tons 

of  servants,  and  other  tons  of  chil- 
dren  ” are  not  desirable  accompani- 
ments  to  this  kind  of  life ; and  his  first 
day  in  Paris  did  not  close  before  he  had 
offered  for  an  “ eligible  mansion.”  That 
same  Saturday  night  he  took  a “ colossal  ” walk 
about  the  city,  of  which  the  brilliancy  and 
brightness  almost  frightened  him;  and  among 
other  things  that  attracted  his  notice  was 
“ rather  a good  book  announced  in  a book- 
seller’s window  as  Les  Mysteres  de  Londres  par 
Sir  Trollopp.  Do  you  know  him?”  A coun- 
tryman better  known  had  given  him  earlier 
greeting.  “ The  first  man  who  took  hold  of  me 
in  the  street,  immediately  outside  this  door,  was 
Bruffum  in  his  check  trousers,  and  without  the 
proper  number  of  buttons  on  his  shirt,  who 
was  going  away  this  morning,  he  told  me,  but 
coming  back  in  two  months,  when  we  would  go 
and  dine — at  some  place  known  to  him  and 
fame.” 

Next  day  he  took  another  long  walk  about 
the  streets,  and  lost  himself  fifty  times.  This 
was  Sunday,  and  he  hardly  knew  what  to  say  of 
it,  as  he  saw  it  there  and  then.  The  bitter 
observance  of  that  day  he  always  sharply  re- 
sisted, believing  a little  rational  enjoyment  to 
be  not  opposed  to  either  rest  or  religion ; but 
here  was  another  matter.  “ The  dirty  churches, 
and  the  clattering  carts  and  waggons,  and  the 
open  shops  (I  don’t  think  I passed  fifty  shut  up, 
in  all  my  strollings  in  and  out),  and  the  work-a- 
day  dresses  and  drudgeries,  are  not  comfortable. 
Open  theatres  and  so  forth  I am  well  used  to, 
of  course,  by  this  time  ; but  so  much  toil  and 
sweat  on  what  one  would  like  to  see,  apart  from 
religious  observances,  a sensible  holiday,  is  pain- 
ful.” 

The  date  of  his  letter  was  the  22nd  of  Novem- 
ber, and  it  had  three  postscripts.'^  The  first, 

* It-'had  also  the  mention  of  another  floating  fancy  for 
the  weekly  periodical  which  was  still  and  always  present 
to  his  mind,  and  which  settled  down  at  last,  as  the  reader 
knov/s,  into  Household  Words.  “ As  to  the  Review,  I 
strongly  incline  to  the  notion  of  a kind  of  Spectator 
(Addison’s)— very  cheap,  and  pretty  frequent.  "We  must 
have  it  thoroughly  discussed.  It  would  be  a great  thing 
to  found  something.  If  the  mark  between  a sort  of 
Spectator,  and  a different  sort  of  Athenaum,  could  be 

“Monday  afternoon,”  told  me  a house  was 
taken  ; that,  unless  the  agreement  should  break 
off  on  any  unforeseen  fight  between  Roche  and 
the  agent  (“  a French  Mrs.  Gamp”),  I was  to 
address  him  at  No.  48,  Rue  de  Courcelles, 
Faubourg  St.  Honore ; and  that  he  would  merely 
then  advert  to  the  premises  as  in  his  belief  the 
“ most  ridiculous,  extraordinary,  unparalleled, 
and  preposterous  ” in  the  whole  world  ; being 
something  between  a baby-house,  a “shades,”  a 
haunted  castle,  and  a mad  kind  of  clock. 
“ They  belong  to  a Marquis  Castellan,  and  you 
will  be  ready  to  die  of  laughing  when  you  go 
over  them.”  The  second  P.S.  declared  that  his 
lips  should  be  sealed  till  I beheld  for  myself. 
“ By  Heaven  it  is  not  to  be  imagined  by  the 
mind  of  man  ! ” The  third  P.S.  closed  the  let- 
ter. “ One  room  is  a tent.  Another  room  is  a 
grove.  Another  room  is  a scene  at  the  Victoria. 
The  upstairs  rooms  are  like  fanlights  over  street- 
doors.  The  nurseries — but  no,  no,  no,  no 
more !....” 

His  following  letter  nevertheless  sent  more, 
even  in  the  form  of  an  additional  protestation 
that  never  till  I saw  it  should  the  place  be  de- 
scribed. “ I will  merely  observe  that  it  is  fifty 
yards  long,  and  eighteen  feet  high,  and  that  the 
bedrooms  are  exactly  like  opera-boxes.  It  has 
its  little  courtyard  and  garden,  and  porter’s 
house  and  cordon  to  open  the  door,  and  so 
forth ; and  is  a Paris  mansion  in  little.  There 
is  a gleam  of  reason  in  the  drawing-room. 
Being  a gentleman’s  house,  and  not  one  furnished 
to  let,  it  has  some  very  curious  things  in  it ; 
some  of  the  oddest  things  you  ever  beheld  in 
your  life ; and  an  infinity  of  easy  chairs  and 

sofas Bad  weather.  It  is  snowing  hard. 

There  is  not  a door  or  window  here — but  that’s 
nothing ! there’s  not  a door  or  window  in  all 
Paris — that  shuts ; not  a chink  in  all  the  bil- 
lions of  trillions  of  chinks  in  the  city  that  can  be 
stopped  to  keep  the  wind  out.  And  the  cold ! 
— but  you  shall  judge  for  yourself ; and  also  of 
this  preposterous  dining-room.  The  invention, 
sir,  of  Henry  Bulwer,  who  when  he  had  exe- 
cuted it  (he  used  to  live  here),  got  frightened  at 
what  he  had  done,  as  well  he  might,  and  went 

away The  Brave  called  me  aside  on 

Saturday  night,  and  showed  me  an  improvement 
he  had  effected  in  the  decorative  way.  ‘ Which,’ 
he  said,  ‘ will  very  much  s’prise  Mis’r  Fors’er 
when  he  come.’  You  are  to  be  deluded  into  the 
belief  that  there  is  a perspective  of  chambers 

well  hit,  my  belief  is  that  a deal  might  be  done.  But  it 
should  be  something  with  a marked  and  distinctive  and 
obvious  difference,  in  its  design,  from  any  other  existing 
periodical.” 

2i8  the  life  of  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


twenty  miles  in  length,  opening  from  the  draw- 
ing-room  ” 

My  visit  was  not  yet  due,  however,  and  what 
occupied  or  interested  him  in  the  interval  may 
first  be  told.  He  had  not  been  two  days  in 
Paris  when  a letter  from  his  father  made  him 
very  anxious  for  the  health  of  his  eldest  sister. 
“ I was  going  to  the  play  (a  melodrama  in  eight 
acts,  five  hours  long),  but  hadn’t  the  heart  to 
leave  home  after  my  father’s  letter,”  he  is 
writing  on  the  30th  of  November,  “ and  sent 
Georgy  and  Kate  by  themselves.  There  seems 
to  be  no  doubt  whatever  that  Fanny  is  in  a con- 
sumption.” She  had  broken  down  in  an  at- 
tempt to  sing  at  a party  in  Manchester;  and 
subsequent  examination  by  Sir  Charles  Bell’s 
nephew,  who  was  present  and  took  much  in- 
terest in  her,  sadly  revealed  the  cause.  “ He 
advised  that  neither  she  nor  Burnett  should  be 
told  the  truth,  and  my  father  has  not  disclosed 
it.  In  worldly  circumstances  they  are  very  com- 
fortable, and  they  are  very  much  respected. 
They  seem  to  be  happy  together,  and  Burnett 
has  a great  deal  of  teaching.  You  remember  my 
feats  about  her  when  she  was  in  London  the 
time  of  Alfred’s  marriage,  and  that  I said  she 
looked  to  me  as  if  she  were  in  a decline  ? Kate 
took  her  to  Elliotson,  who  said  that  her  lungs 
were  certainly  not  affected  then.  And  she  cried 
for  joy.  Don’t  you  think  it  would  be  better  for 
her  to  be  brought  up,  if  possible,  to  see  Elliot- 
son again  ? I am  deeply,  deeply  grieved  about 
it.”  This  course  was  taken,  and  for  a time 
there  seemed  room  for  hope ; but  the  result  will 
be  seen.  In  the  same  letter  I heard  of  poor 
Charles  Sheridan,  well  known  to  us  both,  dying 
of  the  same  terrible  disease ; and  his  chief.  Lord 
Normanby,  whose  many  acts  of  sympathy  and 
kindness  had  inspired  strong  regard  in  Dickens, 
he  had  already  found  “as  informal  and  good- 
natured  as  ever,  but  not  so  gay  as  usual,  and 
having  an  anxious  haggard  way  with  him,  as  if 
his  responsibilities  were  more  than  he  had  bar- 
gained for.”  Nor,  to  account  for  this,  had 
Dickens  far  to  seek,  when  a little  leisure  enabled 
him  to  see  something  of  what  was  passing  in 
Paris  during  that  last  year  of  Louis  Philippe’s 
reign.  What  first  impressed  him  most  unfavour- 
ably was  a glimpse  in  the  Champs  Elyse'es  of 
the  King  himself  coming  in  from  the  country. 
“ There  were  two  carriages.  His  was  sur- 
rounded by  horseguards.  It  went  at  a great 
pace,  and  he  sat  very  far  back  in  a corner  of  it, 
I promise  you.  It  was  strange  to  an  English- 
man to  see  the  Prefet  of  Police  riding  on  horse- 
back some  hundreds  of  yards  in  advance  of  the 
cortege,  turning  his  head  incessantly  from  side  to 


side,  likeafigure  in  a Dutch  clock,  and  scrutinizing 
everybody  and  everything,  as  if  he  suspected  all 
the  twigs  in  all  the  trees  in  the  long  avenue.” 

But  these  and  other  political  indications  were  ■ 
only,  as  they  generally  prove  to  be,  the  outward 
signs  of  maladies  more  deeply-seated.  He  saw 
almost  everywhere  signs  of  canker  eating  into 
the  heart  of  the  people  themselves.  “ It  is  a 
wicked  and  detestable  place,  though  wonder- 
fully attractive ; and  there  can  be  no  better  sum- 
mary of  it,  after  all,  than  Hogarth’s  unmention- 
able phrase.”  Fie  sent  me  no  letter  that  did 
not  contribute  something  of  observation  or  cha- 
racter. He  went  at  first  rather  frequently  to  the 
Morgue,  until  shocked  by  something  so  repul- 
sive that  he  had  not  courage  for  a long  time  to 
go  back ; and  on  that  same  occasion  he  had 
noticed  the  keeper  smoking  a short  pipe  at  his 
little  window,  “ and  giving  a bit  of  freslr  turf  to 
a linnet  in  a cage.”  Of  the  condition  generally 
of  the  streets  he  reported  badly ; the  quays  on 
the  other  side  of  the  Seine  were  not  safe  after 
dark ; and  here  was  his  own  night  experience  of 
one  of  the  best  quarters  of  the  city.  “ I took 
Georgy  out,  the  night  before  last,  to  show  her 
the  Palais  Royal  lighted  up ; and  on  the  Boule- 
vard, a street  as  bright  as  the  brightest  part  of 
the  Strand  or  Regent-street,  we  saw  a man  fail 
upon  another,  close  before  us,  and  try  to  tear 
the  cloak  off  his  back.  It  was  in  a little  dark 
corner  near  the  Porte  St.  Denis,  which  stands 
out  in  the  middle  of  the  street.  After  a short 
struggle,  the  thief  fled  (there  were  thousands  of 
people  walking  about),  and  was  captured  just 
on  the  other  side  of  the  road.” 

An  incident  of  that  kind  might  mean  little  or 
much  ; but  what  he  proceeded  to  remark  of  the 
ordinary  Parisian  Avorkpeople  and  smaller  shop- 
keepers, had  a more  grave  complexion;  and 
may  be  thought  perhaps  still  to  yield  some  illus- 
tration, not  without  value,  to  tlie  story  of  the 
quarter  of  a century  that  has  passed  since,  and 
even  to  some  of  the  appalling  events  of  its  latest 
year  or  two.  “ It  is  extraordinary  what  non- 
sense English  people  talk,  write,  and  believe, 
about  foreign  countries.  The  Swiss  (so  much 
decried)  will  do  anything  for  you,  if  you  are 
frank  and  civil ; they  are  attentive  and  punctual 
in  all  their  dealings ; and  may  be  relied  upon 
as  steadily  as  the  English.  The  Parisian  work- 
])eople  and  smaller  sho])keepers  are  more  like 
(and  unlike)  Americans  than  I could  have  sup- 
posed possible.  To  the  American  indifference 
and  carelessness  they  add  a procrastination  and 
want  of  the  least  heed  about  keeping  a i)romise 
or  being  exact,  which  is  certainly  not  surpassetl 
in  Naples.  They  have  the  American  semi-sen- 


21IREE  MONTHS  IN  PARIS. 


-19 


timental  independence  too,  and  none  of  the 
American  vigour  or  purpose.  If  they  ever  get 
free  trade  in  France  (as  1 suppose  they  will,  one 
day)  these  parts  of  the  population  must,  for 
years  and  years,  be  ruined.  They  couldn’t  get 
the  means  of  existence,  in  competition  with  the 
English  workmen.  Their  inferior  manual  dex- 
terity, their  lazy  habits,  perfect  unreliability,  and 
habitual  insubordination,  would  ruin  them  in 
any  such  contest,  instantly.  They  are  fit  for 
nothing  but  soldiering — and  so  far,  I believe  the 
successors  in  the  policy  of  your  friend  Napoleon 
have  reason  on  their  side.  Eh  bien,  mon  ami, 
quand  vous  venez  h Paris,  nous  nous  mettrons  a 
quatre  ^pingles,  et  nous  verrons  toutes  les  mer- 
veilles  de  la  cite,  et  vous  en  jugerez.  God  bless 
me,  I beg  your  pardon  ! It  comes  so  natural.” 
On  the  30th  he  wrote  to  me  that  he  had  got 
his  papers  into  order  and  hoped  to  begin  that 
day.  But  the  same  letter  told  me  of  the  unset- 
tlement thus  early  of  his  half-formed  Paris  plans. 
Three  months  sooner  than  he  designed  he 
should  be  due  in  London  for  family  reasons ; 
should  have  to  keep  within  the  limit  of  four 
months  abroad ; and  as  his  own  house  would 
not  be  free  till  July,  would  have  to  hire  one 
from  the  end  of  March.  “ In  these  circum- 
stances I think  I shall  send  Charley  to  King’s- 
college  after  Christmas.  I am  sorry  he  should 
lose  so  much  French,  but  don’t  you  think  to 
break  another  half-year’s  schooling  would  be  a 
pity  ? Of  my  own  will  I would  not  send  him  to 
King’s-college  at  all,  but  to  Bruce-castle  instead. 
I suppose,  however,  Miss  Coutts  is  best.  We 
will  talk  over  all  this  when  I come  to  London.” 
The  offer  to  take  charge  of  his  eldest  son’s  edu- 
cation had  been  pressed  upon  Dickens  by  this 
true  friend,  to  whose  delicate  and  noble  con- 
sideration for  him  it  would  hardly  become  me  to 
make  other  allusion  here.  Munificent  as  the 
kindness  was,  however,  it  was  yet  only  the 
smallest  part  of  the  obligation  which  Dickens 
felt  that  he  owed  this  lady ; to  whose  generous 
schemes  for  the  neglected  and  uncared-for  classes 
of  the  population,  in  all  which  he  deeply  sym- 
pathised, he  did  the  very  utmost  to  render. 


through  many  years,  unstinted  service  of  time 
and  labour,  with  sacrifices  unselfish  as  her 
own.  His  proposed  early  visit  to  London 
named  in  this  letter,  was  to  see  the  rehearsal  of 
his  Christmas  story,  dramatised  by  Mr.  Albert 
Smith  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Keeley  at  the  Lyceum  j 
and  my  own  proposed  visit  to  Paris  was  to  be 
in  the  middle  of  January.  “ It  will  then  be  the 
height  of  the  season,  and  a good  time  for  testing 
the  unaccountable  French  vanity  which  really 
does  suppose  there  are  no  fogs  here,  but  that 
they  are  all  in  London.” 

The  opening  of  his  next  letter,  which  bore 
date  the  6th  of  December,  and  its  amusing 
sequel,  will  sufficiently  speak  for  themselves. 
“ Cold  intense.  The  water  in  the  bed-room 
jugs  freezes  into  solid  masses  from  top  to 
bottom,  bursts  the  jugs  with  reports  like  small 
cannon,  and  rolls  out  on  the  tables  and  wash- 
stands  hard  as  granite.  I stick  to  the  shower- 
bath,  but  have  been  most  hopelessly  out  of 
sorts — writing  sorts  ; that’s  all.  Couldn’t  begin 
in  the  strange  place ; took  a violent  dislike  to 
my  study,  and  came  down  into  the  drawing- 
room ; couldn’t  find  a corner  that  would  answer 
my  purpose ; fell  into  a black  contemplation  of 
the  waning  month;  sat  six  hours  at  a stretch, 

and  wrote  as  many  lines,  &c.,  &c.,  &c 

Then,  you  know  what  arrangements  are  neces- 
sary with  the  chairs  and  tables ; and  then  what, 
correspondence  had  to  be  cleared  off ; and  then 
how  I tried  to  settle  to  my  desk,  and  went 
about  and  about  it,  and  dodged  at  it,  like  a bird 
at  a lump  of  sugar.  In  short  I have  just  begun ; 
five -printed  pages  finished,  I should  say;  and 
hope  I shall  be  blessed  with  a better  condition 
this  next  week,  or  I shall  be  behind-hand.  I 
shall  try  to  go  at  it — hard.  I can’t  do  more.  . . . 
There  is  rather  a good  man  lives  in  this  street, 
and  I have  had  a correspondence  with  him 
which  is  preserved  for  your  inspection.  His 
name  is  Barthelemy.  He  wears  a prodigious 
Spanish  cloak,  a slouched  hat,  an  immense 
beard,  and  long  black  hair.  He  called  the 
other  day,  and  left  his  card.  Allow  me  to  en- 
close his  card,  which  has  originality  and  merit. 


220  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DLCKENS. 


Roche  said  I wasn’t  at  home.  Yesterday,  he 
wrote  to  rne  to  say  that  he  too  was  a ‘ Littera- 
teur’— that  he  had  called,  in  compliment  to  my 
distinguished  reputation — ‘qu’il  n’avait  pas  ete 
re^u — qu’il  n’etait  pas  habitue  a cette  sorte 
de  procede — et  qu’il  pria  Monsieur  Uickens 
d’oublier  son  nom,  sa  memoire,  sa  carte,  et  sa 
visite,  et  de  considerer  qu’elle  n’avait  pas  ete 
rendu  ! ’ Of  course  I wrote  him  a very  polite 
reply  immediately,  telling  him  good-humouredly 
that  he  was  quite  mistaken,  and  that  there  were 
always  two  weeks  in  the  beginning  of  every 
month  when  M.  Dickens  ne  pouvait  rendre 
visite  h.  personne.  He  wrote  back  to  say  that 
he  was  more  than  satisfied  ; that  it  was  his  case 
too,  at  the  end  of  every  month ; and  that  when 
busy  himself,  he  not  only  can’t  receive  or  pay 
visits,  but — ‘ tombe,  gen^ralement,  aussi,  dans 
des  humeurs  noires  qui  approchent  de  I’anthro- 
pophagie  ! ! ! ’ I think  that’s  pretty  well.” 

He  was  in  London  eight  days,  from  the  15th 
to  the  2jrd  of  December ; and  among  the  oc- 
cupations of  his  visit,  besides  launching  his  little 
story  on  the  stage,  was  the  settlement  of  form 
for  a cheap  edition  of  his  writings,  which  began 
I in  the  following  year.  It  was  to  be  printed  in 
I double  columns,  and  issued  weekly  in  three- 
' halfpenny  numbers ; there  were  to  be  new  pre- 
faces, but  no  illustrations ; and  for  each  book 
something  less  than  a fourth  of  the  original 
price  was  to  be  charged.  Its  success  was  very 
good,  but  did  not  come  even  near  to  the  mark 
of  the  later  issues  of  his  writings.  His  own  feel- 
ing as  to  this,  however,  though  any  failure  at  the 
moment  affected  him  on  other  grounds,  was 
always  that  of  a quiet  confidence ; and  he  had 
expressed  this  in  a proposed  dedication  of  this 
very  edition,  which  for  other  reasons  was  ulti- 
mately laid  aside.  It  will  be  worth  preserving 
here.  '■  This  cheap  edition  of  my  books  is  dedi- 
cated to  the  English  people,  in  whose  approval, 
if  the  books  be  true  in  spirit,  they  will  live,  and 
out  of  whose  memory,  if  they  be  false,  they  will 
very  soon  die.” 

Upon  his  return  to  Paris  I had  frequent  re- 
port of  his  progress  with  his  famous  fifth  number, 
on  the  completion  of  which  I was  to  join  him. 
The  day  at  one  time  seemed  doubtful.  “ It 
would  be  miserable  to  have  to  work  while  you 
M’ere  here.  Still,  I make  such  sudden  starts, 
and  am  so  possessed  of  what  I am  going  to  do, 
that  the  fear  may  prove  to  be  quite  groundless, 
and  if  any  alteration  would  trouble  you,  let  the 
13th  stand  at  all  hazards.”  The  cold  he  de- 
scribed as  so  intense,  and  the  price  of  fuel  so 
enormous,  that  though  the  house  was  not 
half  warmed  (“as  you’ll  say,  when  you  feel  it  ”) 


it  cost  him  very  near  a pound  a day.  Begging- 
letter  writers  had  found  out  “ Monsieur  Dickens, 
le  romancier  celebre,”  and  waylaid  him  at  the 
door  and  in  the  street  as  numerously  as  in  Lon- 
don : their  distinguishing  peculiarity  being  that 
they  were  nearly  all  of  them  “ Chevaliers  de  la 
Garde  Imperiale  de  sa  Majeste  Napoleon  le 
Grand,”  and  that  their  letters  bore  immense  seals 
with  coats  of  arms  as  large  as  five  shilling  pieces. 
His  friends  the  Watsons  passed  new  year’s  day 
with  him  on  their  way  to  Rockingham  from 
Lausanne,  leaving  that  country  covered  with 
snow  and  the  Bise  blowing  cruelly  over  it,  but 
describing  it  as  nothing  to  the  cold  of  Paris. 
On  the  day  that  closed  the  old  year  he  had 
gone  into  the  Morgue  and  seen  an  old  man  with 
grey  head  lying  there.  “ It  seemed  the  strangest 
thing  in  the  world  that  it  should  have  been  ne- 
cessary to  take  any  trouble  to  stop  such  a feeble, 
spent,  exhausted  morsel  of  life.  It  was  just  dusk 
when  I went  in ; the  place  was  empty ; and  he 
lay  there,  all  alone,  like^en^mpersonation  of  the 

wintry  eighteen  hundred  ano^forty-six 

I find  I am  getting  inimitable,  so  I’ll  stop.” 

The  time  for  my  visit  having  come,  I had 
grateful  proof  of  the  minute  and  thoughtful  pro- 
vision characteristic  of  him  in  everything.  Din- 
ner had  been  ordered  to  the  second  at  Bou- 
logne, a place  in  the  malle-poste  taken,  and 
these  and  other  services  announced  in  a letter, 
which,  by  way  of  doing  its  part  also  in  the 
kindly  work  of  preparation,  broke  out  into 
French.  He  never  spoke  that  language  very 
well,  his  accent  being  somehow  defective ; but 
he  practised  himself  into  writing  it  with  re- 
markable ease  and  fluency.  “ I have  written 
to  the  Hotel  des  Bains  at  Boulogne  to  send 
on  to  Calais  and  take  your  place  in  the  malle- 

poste Of  course  you  know  that  you’ll  be 

assailed  with  frightful  shouts  all  along  the  two 
lines  of  ropes,  from  all  the  touters  in  Boulogne, 
and  of  course  you’ll  pass  on  like  the  princess 
who  went  up  the  mountain  after  the  talking  bird  ; 
but  don’t  forget  quietly  to  single  out  the  Hotel 
des  Bains  commissionnaire.  The  following  cir- 
cumstances will  then  occur.  My  experience  is 
more  recent  than  yours,  and  I will  throw  them 

into  a dramatic  form You  are  filtered 

into  the  little  office,  where  there  are  some 
soldiers ; and  a gentleman  with  a black  beard 
and  a pen  and  ink  sitting  behind  a counter. 
Barbe  Noire  (to  the  lord  of  L.  I.  E.).  Monsieur, 
votre  passeport.  Monsieur.  Monsieur,  le  void  ! 
Barbe  Noire.  Ou  allez-vous,  monsieur?  Mon- 
simr.  Monsieur,  je  vais  h Paris.  Barbe  Noire. 
Quand  allez-vous  partir,  monsieur  ? Monsieur. 
Monsieur,  je  vais  partir  aujourd’hui.  Avee  la 


THREE  MONTHS  IN  TAR  IS. 


malle-poste.  Barbe  AVire.  C’est  bien.  (To 
Gendarme.)  Laissez  sortir  monsieur ! Gen- 
darme. Par  ici,  monsieur,  s’il  vous  plait.  Le  gen- 
darme ouvert  line  trbs  petite  porte.  Monsieur 
se  trouve  subitement  entoure  de  tous  les  gamins, 
agents,  commissionnaires,  porteurs,  et  polissons, 
en  gene'ral,  de  Boulogne,  qui  s’dlancent  sur  lui, 
en  poussant  des  cris  epouvantables.  Monsieur 
est,  pour  le  moment,  tout-ii-fait  effrayd,  boule- 
verse.  Mais  monsieur  reprend  ses  forces  et  dit, 
de  haute  voi.x  ; ‘ Le  Commissionnaire  de  I’Hotel 
des  Bains  ! ” Un  petit  homme  (s’avangant  rapide- 
ment,  et  en  souriant  doucement).  Me  voici, 
monsieur.  Monsieur  Fors  Tair,  n’est-ce  pas  ? 

. . . . Alors  ....  Alors  monsieur  se  promene 
^ I’Hotel  des  Bains,  ou  monsieur  trouvera  qu’un 
petit  salon  particulier,  en  haut,  est  ddjk  prepare 
pour  sa  reception,  et  que  son  diner  est  d^ja 
commande,  grace  aux  soins  du  brave  Courier, 

a midi  et  demi Monsieur  mangera  son 

diner  prhs  du  feu,  avec  beaucoup  de  plaisir,  et 
il  boirera  de  vin  rouge  a la  santd  de  Monsieur 
de  Boze,  et  sa  famille  interessante  et  aimable. 
La  malle-poste  arrivera  au  bureau  de  la  poste 
aux  lettres  k deux  heures  ou  peut-etre  un  peu 
plus  tard.  Mais  monsieur  chargera  le  commission- 
naire d’y  I’accompagner  de  bonne  heure,  car 
c’est  beaucoup  mieux  de  I’attendre  que  de  la 
perdre.  La  malle-post  arrivee,  monsieur  prendra 
sa  place,  aussi  comfortablement  qu’il  le  pourra, 
et  il  y restera  jusqu’a  son  arrivde  au  bureau  de 
la  poste  aux  lettres  it  Paris.  Pareeque,  le  convoi 
(train)  n’est  pas  I’affaire  de  monsieur,  qui  gar- 
dera  sa  place  dans  la  malle-poste,  sur  le  chemin 
de  fer,  et  aprhs  le  chemin  de  fer,  jusqu’il  se 
trouve  k la  basse-cour  du  bureau  de  la  poste  aux 
lettres  k Paris,  ou  il  trouvera  une  voiture  qui  a 
ete  ddpeche  de  la  Rue  de  Courcelles,  quarante- 
huit.  Mais  monsieur  aura  la  bonte  d’observer 
— Si  le  convoi  arriverait  k Amiens  apres  le 
depart  du  convoi  k minuit,  il  faudrait  y rester 
jusqu’k  I’arrivee  d’un  autre  convoi  k trois  heures 
moins  un  quart.  En  attendant,  monsieur  pent 
rester  au  buffet  (refreshment  room),  ou  Ton  peut 
toujours  trouver  un  bon  feu,  et  du  cafe  chaud, 
et  de  tres  bonnes  choses  k boire  et  k manger, 
pendant  toute  la  nuit. — Est-ce  que  monsieur 
comprend  parfaitement  toutes  ces  regies  ? — Vive 
le  Roi  des  Franqais  ! Roi  de  la  nation  la  plus 
grande,  et  la  plus  noble,  et  la  plus  extraordinaire- 
ment  merveilleuse,  du  monde ! A bas  les 
Anglais  ! 

“Charles  Dickens, 

“Fran9ais  naturalise,  et  Citoyen  de  Paris.” 

We  passed  a fortnight  together,  and  crowded 
into  it  more  than  might  seem  possible  to  such  a 


narrow  space.  With  a dreadful  insatiability  we 
passed  through  every  variety  of  sight-seeing, 
prisons,  ])alaces,  theatres,  hospitals,  the  Morgue 
and  the  Lazare,  as  well  as  the  Louvre,  Versailles, 
St.  Cloud,  and  all  the  spots  made  memorable  by 
the  first  revolution.  The  excellent  comedian 
Regnier,  known  to  us  through  Macready  and 
endeared  by  many  kindnesses,  incomparable  for 
his  knowledge  of  the  city  and  unwearying  in 
friendly  service,  made  us  free  of  the  green-room 
of  the  Fran^ais,  where,  on  the  birthday  of 
Moliere,  we  saw  his  “Don  Juan”  revived.  At 
the  Conservatoire  we  witnessed  the  masterly 
teaching  of  Samson  ; at  the  Odeon  saw  a new 
play  by  Ponsard,  done  but  indifferently  ; at  the 
Varie'tes  “ Gentil-Bernard,”  with  four  grisettes 
as  if  stepped  out  of  a picture  by  Watteau ; at  the 
Gymnase  “ Clarisse  Harlowe,”  with  a death- 
scene  of  Rose  Cheri  which  comes  back  to  me, 
through  the  distance  of  time,  as  the  prettiest 
piece  of  pure  and  gentle  stage  pathos  in  my 
memory  at  the  Porte  St.  Martin  “ Lucretia 
Borgia  ” by  Hugo ; at  the  Cirque,  scenes  of  the 
great  revolution,  and  all  the  battles  of  Napoleon  ; 
at  the  Comic  Opera,  “Gibby;”  and  at  the 
Palais  Royal  the  usual  new-year’s  piece,  in  which 
Alexandre  Dumas  was  shown  in  his  study  be- 
side a pile  of  quarto  volumes  five  feet  high, 
which  proved  to  be  the  first  tableau  of  the  first 
act  of  the  first  piece  to  be  played  on  the  first 
night  of  his  new  theatre.  That  new  theatre,  the 
Historique,  we  also  saw  verging  to  a very  short- 
lived completeness ; and  we  supped  with  Dumas 
himself,  and  with  Eugene  Sue,  and  met  Theophile 
Gautier  and  Alphonse  Karr.  We  saw  Lamartine 
also,  and  had  much  friendly  intercourse  with 
Scribe,  and  with  the  kind  good-natured  Amedee 
Pichot.  One  day  we  visited  in  the  Rue  du  Bac 
the  sick  and  ailing  Chateaubriand,  whom  we 
thought  like  Basil  Montagu  ; found  ourselves  at 
the  other  extreme  of  opinion  in  the  sculpture- 
room  of  David  d’Angers ; and  closed  that  day 
at  the  house  of  Victor  Hugo,  by  whom  Dickens 
was  received  with  infinite  courtesy  and  grace. 
The  great  writer  then  occupied  a floor  in  a noble 
corner-house  in  the  Place  Royale,  the  old  quarter 
of  Ninon  I’Enclos  and  the  people  of  the  Regency, 
of  whom  the  gorgeous  tapestries,  the  painted 
ceilings,  the  wonderful  carvings  and  old  golden 
furniture,  including  a canopy  of  state  out  of 
some  palace  of  the  middle  age,  quaintly  and 
grandly  reminded  us.  He  was,  himself,  how- 
ever, the  best  thing  we  saw ; and  I find  it  diffi- 
cult to  associate  the  attitudes  and  aspect  in 
which  the  world  has  lately  wondered  at  him, 
with  the  sober  grace  and  self-possessed  quiet 
gravity  of  that  night  of  twenty-five  years  ago. 


2 22  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Just  then  Louis  Philippe  had  ennobled  him,  but 
the  man’s  nature  was  written  noble.  Rather 
under  the  middle  size,  of  compact  close-buttoned- 
up  figure,  with  ample  dark  hair  falling  loosely 
over  his  close-shaven  face,  I never  saw  upon 
any  features  so  keenly  intellectual  such  a soft 
and  sweet  gentility,  and  certainly  never  heard 
the  French  language  spoken  with  the  picturesque 
distinctness  given  toit  by  Victor  liugo.  He  talked 
of  his  childhood  in  Spain,  and  of  his  father  having 
been  Governor  of  the  Tagus  in  Napoleon’s  wars  ; 
spoke  warmly  of  the  English  people  and  their 
literature ; declared  his  preference  for  melody 
and  simplicity  over  the  music  then  fashionable 
at  the  Conservatoire ; referred  kindly  to  Pon- 
sard,  laughed  at  the  actors  who  had  murdered  his 
tragedy  at  the  Odeon,  and  sympathized  with  the 
dramatic  venture  of  Dumas.  To  Dickens  he 
addressed  very  charming  flattery,  in  the  best 
taste ; and  my  friend  long  remembered  the  en- 
joyment of  that  evening. 

There  is  little  to  add  of  our  Paris  holiday,  if 
indeed  too  much  has  not  been  said  already. 
We  had  an  adventure  with  a drunken  coach- 
man, of  which  the  sequel  showed  at  least  the 
vigour  and  decisiveness  of  the  police  in  regard 
to  hired  vehicles  * in  those  last  days  of  the 
Orleans  monarchy.  At  the  Bibliotheque  Royale 
we  were  much  interested  by  seeing,  among  many 
other  priceless  treasures,  Gutenberg’s  types,  Ra- 
cine’s notes  in  his  copy  of  Sophocles,  Rousseau’s 

* Dickens’s  first  letter  after  my  return  described  it  to 
me.  “Do  you  remember  my  writing  a letter  to  the 
prefect  of  police  about  that  coachman  .?  I heard  no  more 
about  it  until  this  very  day”  (12th  February),  “when,  at 
the  moment  of  your  letter  arriving,  Roche  put  his  head 
in  at  the  door  (I  was  busy  writing  in  the  Baronial  drawing- 
room) and  said  ‘ Hero  is  datter  cocher ! ’ — Sir,  he  had 
been  in  prison  ever  since  ! and  being  released  this  morn- 
ing, was  sent  by  the  police  to  pay  back  the  franc  and  a 
half,  and  to  beg  pardon,  and  to  get  a certificate  that  he 
had  done  so,  or  he  could  not  go  on  the  stand  again  ! 
Isn't  this  admirable  .?  But  the  culminating  point  of  the 
story  (it  could  happen  with  nobody  but  me)  is  that  he  was 
DRUNK  WHEN  HE  CAME  ! ! Not  Very,  but  his  eye  was 
fixed,  and  he  swayed  in  his  sabots,  and  smelt  of  wine, 
and  told  Roche  incoherently  that  he  wouldn’t  have  done 
it  (committed  the  offence,  that  is)  if  the  people  hadn’t 
made  him.  He  seemed  to  be  troubled  with  a phantas- 
magoria! belief  that  all  Paris  had  gathered  round  us  that 


night  in  the  Rue  St,  Ilonore,  and  urged  him  on  with 

frantic  shouts Snow,  frost,  and  cold The 

Duke  of  Bordeaux  is  very  well,  and  dines  at  the  Tuileries 

to-morrow When  I have  done,  I will  write  you  a 

brilliant  letter Loves  from  all Your  blue 


and  golden  bed  looks  desolate.”  The  allusion  to  the 
Due  de  Bordeaux  was  to  remind  me  pleasantly  of  a slip  of 
his  own  during  our  talk  with  Chateaubriand,  when,  at  a 
loss  to  say  something  interesting  to  the  old  royalist,  he 
bethought  himself  to  enquire  with  sympathy  when  he  had 
last  seen  the  representative  of  the  elder  branch  of 
Bourbons,  as  if  he  were  resident  in  the  city  then  and 
thcie  ! 


music,  and  Voltaire’s  note  upon  Frederick  of 
Prussia’s  letter.  Nor  should  I omit  that  in 
what  Dickens  then  told  me,  of  even  his  small 
experience  of  the  social  aspects  of  Paris,  there 
seemed  but  the  same  disease  vdiich  raged  after- 
wards through  the  second  Empire.  Not  many 
days  after  I left,  all  Paris  was  crowding  to  the 
sale  of  a lady  of  the  demi-monde,  Marie  Du- 
plessis,  who  had  led  the  most  brilliant  and 
abandoned  of  lives,  and  left  behind  her  the 
most  exquisite  furniture  and  the  most  voluptu- 
ous and  sumptuous  bijouterie.  Dickens  wished 
at  one  time  to  have  pointed  the  moral  of  this 
life  and  death  of  which  there  was  great  talk  in 
Paris  while  we  were  together.  The  disease  of 
satiety,  which  only  less  often  than  hunger  passes 
for  a broken  heart,  had  killed  her.  “ What  do 
you  want  ? ” asked  the  most  famous  of  the  Paris 
physicians,  at  a loss  for  her  exact  complaint. 
At  last  she  answered : “ To  see  my  mother.” 
She  was  sent  for ) and  there  came  a simple 
Breton  peasant-woman  clad  in  the  quaint  garb 
of  her  province,  who  prayed  by  her  bed  until 
she  died.  Wonderful  was  the  admiration  and 
sympathy ; and  it  culminated  when  Eugene  Sue 
bought  her  prayer-book  at  the  sale.  Our  last 
talk  before  I quitted  Paris,  after  dinner  at  the 
Embassy,  was  of  the  danger  underlying  all  this, 
and  of  the  signs  also  visible  everywhere  of  the 
Napoleon-worship  which  the  Orleanists  them- 
selves had  most  favoured.  Accident  brought 
Dickens  to  England  a fortnight  later,  when 
again  we  met  together,  at  Gore-house,  the  sell- 
contained  reticent  man  whose  doubtful  inherit- 
ance was  thus  rapidly  preparing  to  fall  to  him. 

The  accident  was  the  having  underwritten  his 
number  of  Domhey  by  two  pages,  which  there 
was  not  time  to  supply  otherwise  than  by  com- 
ing to  London  to  write  them.  This  was  done 
accordingly)  but  another  greater  trouble  fol- 
lowed. He  had  hardly  returned  to  Paris  when 
his  eldest  son,  whom  I had  brought  to  England 
with  me  and  placed  in  the  house  of  Doctor 
Major,  then  head-master  of  King’s-college- 
school,  was  attacked  by  scarlet  fever ; and  this 
closed  prematurely  Dickens’s  residence  in  Paris. 
But  though  he  and  his  wife  at  once  came  over, 
and  were  followed  after  some  days  by  the  chil- 
dren and  their  aunt,  the  isolation  of  the  little 
invalid  could  not  so  soon  be  broken  through. 
His  father  at  last  saw  him,  nearly  a month  be- 
fore the  rest,  in  a lodging  in  Albany-slrect, 
where  his  grandmother,  Mrs.  Hogarth,  had 
devoted  herself  to  the  cliarge  of  him ; and  an 
incident  of  the  visit,  which  amused  us  all  very 
much,  will  not  unfitly  introduce  the  subject  that 
waits  me  in  my  next  chapter. 


SPLENDID  STROLLING. 


223 


An  elderly  charwoman  employed  about  the 
place  had  shown  so  much  sympathy  in  the 
family  trouble,  that  Mrs.  Hogarth  specially  told 
her  of  the  approaching  visit,  and  who  it  was 
that  was  coming  to  the  sick-room.  “ Lawk 
ma’am  ! ” she  said.  “ Is  the  young  gentleman 
upstairs  the  son  of  the  man  that  put  together 
Dombeyr  Reassured  upon  this  point,  she  ex- 
plained her  question  by  declaring  that  she  never 
thought  there  was  a ma;i  that  could  have  put 
together  Dombey.  Being  pressed  farther  as  to 
what  her  notion  was  of  this  mystery  of  a Dombey 
(for  it  was.  known  she  could  not  read),  it  turned 
out  that  she  lodged  at  a snuff-shop  kept  by 


a person  named  Douglas,  where  there  were 
several  other  lodgers ; and  that  on  the  first 
Monday  of  every  month  there  was  a Tea,  and 
the  landlord  read  the  month’s  number  of  Dombey, 
those  only  of  the  lodgers  who  subscribed  to 
the  tea  partaking  of  that  luxury,  but  all 
having  the  benefit  of  the  reading ; and  the 
impression  produced  on  the  old  charwoman 
revealed  itself  in  the  remark  with  which  she 
closed  her  account  of  it.  “ Lawk  ma’am  ! I 
thought  that  three  or  four  men  must  have  put 
together  Dombey  ! ” Dickens  thought  there  was 
something  of  a compliment  in  this,  and  was  not 
ungrateful. 


BOOK  SIXTH.— AT  THE  SUMMIT. 
1847—1852.  JEt.  35—40. 


I.  Splendid  Strolling. 

II.  Dombey  and  Son. 

III.  Seaside  Holid.ays. 

VI.  Last  Years  in  Devonshire  Terrace 
VII.  David  Copperfield. 


IV.  Christmas  Books  Closed  and  House- 
hold Words  Begun. 

V.  In  Aid  of  Literature  and  Art. 


I. 


SPLENDID  STROLLING. 

1847—1852. 

I EVONSHIRE  TERRACE  remain- 
ing still  in  possession  of  Sir  James 
Duke,  a house  was  taken  in  Chester- 
place,  Regent’s-park,  where,  on  the 
i8th  of  April,  Dickens’s  fifth  son,  to 
whom  he  gave  the  name  of  Sydney  Smith 
Haldimand,  was  born.  Exactly  a month 
before,  he  had  attended  the  funeral  at 
Highgate  of  his  publisher  Mr.  William  Hall,  his 
old  regard  for  whom  had  survived  the  recent 
temporary  cloud,  and  with  whom  he  had  the 
association  as  well  of  his  first  success,  as  of 
much  kindly  intercourse  not  forgotten  at  dris 
sad  time.  Of  the  summer  months  that  followed, 
the  greater  part  were  passed  by  him  at  Brighton 
or  Broadstairs ; and  the  chief  employment  of  his 
leisure,  in  the  intervals  of  Dombey,  was  the 
management  of  an  enterprise  originating  in  the 
success  of  our  private  play,  of  which  the  design 
was  to  benefit  a great  man  of  letters. 

The  purpose  and  name  had  hardly  been  an- 
nounced, when,  with  the  statesmanlike  attention 


to  literature  and  its  followers  for  which  Lord 
John  Russell  has  been  eccentric  among  English 
politicians,  a civil-list  pension  of  two  hundred  a 
year  was  granted  to  Leigh  Hunt ; but  though 
this  modified  our  plan  so  far  as  to  strike  out  of 
it  performances  meant  to  be  given  in  London, 
so  much  was  still  thought  necessary  as  might 
clear  off  past  liabilities,  and  enable  a delightful 
writer  better  to  enjoy  the  easier  future  that  had 
at  last  been  opened  to  him.  Reserving  there- 
fore anything  realized  beyond  a certain  sum  for 
a dramatic  author  of  merit,  Mr.  John  Poole,  to 
whom  help  had  become  also  important,  it  was 
proposed  to  give,  on  Leigh  Hunt’s  behalf,  two 
representations  of  Ben  Jonson’s  comedy,  one  at 
Manchester  and  the  other  at  Liverpool,  to  be 
varied  by  different  farces  in  each  place;  and 
with  a prologue  of  Talfourd’s  which  Dickens 
was  to  deliver  in  Manchester,  while  a similar 
address  by  Sir  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton  was  to  be 
spoken  by  me  in  Liverpool.  Among  the  artists 
and  writers  associated  in  the  scheme  -were  Mr. 
Frank  Stone,  Mr.  Augustus  Egg,  Mr.  John 
Leech,  and  Mr.  George  Cruikshank ; Mr.  Dou- 
glas Jerrold,  Mr.  Mark  Lemon,  Mr.  Dudley 
Costello,  and  Mr.  George  Henry  Lewes ; the 
general  management  and  supreme  control  being 
given  to  Dickens. 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


224 


Leading  men  in  both  cities  contributed  largely 
to  the  design,  and  my  friend  Mr.  Alexander 
Ireland  of  Manchester  has  lately  sent  me  some 
letters  not  more  characteristic  of  the  energy  of 
Dickens  in  regard  to  it  than  of  the  eagerness  of 
everyone  addressed  to  give  what  help  they  could. 
Making  personal  mention  of  his  fellow-sharers 
in  the  enterprise  he  describes  the  troop,  in  one 
of  those  letters,  as  “ the  most  easily  governable 
company  of  actors  on  earth  and  to  this  he 
had  doubtless  brought  them,  but  not  very  easily. 


One  or  two  of  his  managerial  troubles  at  re- 
! hearsals  remain  on  record  in  letters  to  myself, 
and  may  give  amusement  still.  Comedy  and 
farces  are  referred  to  indiscriminately,  but  the 
farces  were  the  most  recurring  plague.  “ Good 
Heaven  ! I find  that  A.  hasn’t  twelve  words, 
and  I am  in  hourly  expectation  of  rebellion  ! ” — 
“You  were  right  about  the  green  baize,  that  it 
would  certainly  muffle  the  voices ; and  some  of 
our  actors,  by  Jove,  haven’t  too  much  of  that 
commodity  at  the  best.” — “ B.  shocked  me  so 


READING  “ DOMBEY  ” AT  THE  SNUFF-SHOP.' 


much  the  other  night  by  a restless,  stupid  move- 
ment of  his  hands  in  his  first  scene  with  you, 
that  I took  a turn  of  an  hour  with  him  yesterday 
morning,  and  I hope  quieted  his  nerves  a little.” 
— “ I made  a desperate  effort  to  get  C.  to  give 
up  his  part.  Yet  in  spite  of  all  the  trouble  he 
gives  me  I am  sorry  for  liim,  he  is  so  evidently 
hurt  by  his  own  sense  of  not  doing  well.  He 
clutched  the  part,  however,  tenaciously  ; and 
three  weary  times  we  dragged  through  it  last 
night.” — “ That  infernal  E.  forgets  everything.” 


— “ I plainly  see  that  F.  when  nervous,  which 
he  is  sure  to  be,  loses  his  memory.  Moreover, 
his  asides  are  inaudible,  even  at  Miss  Kelly’s^ 
and  as  regularly  as  I stop  him  to  say  them  again, 
he  exclaims  (with  a face  of  agony)  that  ‘ he’ll 
speak  loud  on  the  night,’  as  if  anybody  ever  did 
without  doing  it  always  !” — “ G.  not  born  for  it 
at  all,  and  too  innately  conceited,  I much  fear, 
to  do  anything  well.  I thought  him  better  last 
night,  but  1 would  as  soon  laugh  at  a kitchen- 
poker,” — “ Fancy  11.  ten  days  after  the  casting 


SPLENDID  STROLLING. 


of  that  farce,  wanting  F.’s  part  therein  ! Having 
liiinself  an  excellent  old  man  in  it  already,  and 
a quite  admirable  part  in  the  other  farce.”  From 
which  it  will  appear  that  my  friend’s  office  was 
not  a sinecure,  and  that  he  was  not,  as  few 
amateur-managers  have  ever  been,  without  the 
experiences  of  Peter  Quince.  Fewer  still,  I 
suspect,  have  fought  through  them  with  such 
perfect  success,  for  the  company  turned  out  at 
last  would  have  done  credit  to  any  enterprise. 
They  deserved  the  term  applied  to-«them  by 
Maclise,  who  had  invented  it  first  for  Macready, 
on  his  being  driven  to  “star”  in  the  provinces 
when  his  managements  in  London  closed.  They 
were  “ splendid  strollers.” 

On  Monday  the  26th  July  we  played  at  Man- 
chester, and  on  Wednesday  the  28th  at  Liver- 
pool ; the  comedy  being  followed  on  the  first 
night  by  A Good  Night's  Rest  and  Turning  the 
Tables,  and  on  the  second  by  Comfortable  Lodg- 
ings, or  Paris  in  1750;  and  the  receipts  being, 
on  the  first  night,  ;j^44o  12^.,  and  on  the  second, 
^£46^  8j.  6d.  But  though  the  married  mem- 
bers of  the  company  who  took  their  wives  de- 
frayed that  part  of  the  cost,  and  every  one  who 
acted  paid  three  pounds  ten  to  the  benefit-fund 
for  his  hotel  charges,  the  expenses  were  neces- 
sarily so  great  that  the  profit  was  reduced  to  four 
hundred  guineas,  and,  handsomely  as  this  real- 
ised the  design,  expectations  had  been  raised 
to  five  hundred.  There  was  just  that  shade  of 
disappointment,  therefore,  when,  shortly  after 
we  came  back  and  Dickens  had  returned  to 
Broadstairs,  I was  startled  by  a letter  from  him. 
On  the  3rd  of  August  he  had  written  : “ All 
well.  Children,”  (who  had  been  going  through 
whooping  cough)  “ immensely  improved.  Busi- 
ness arising  out  of  the  late  blaze  of  triumph, 
worse  than  ever.”  Then  came  what  startled  me, 
the  very  next  day.  As  if  his  business  were  not 
enough,  it  had  occurred  to  him  that  he  might 
add  the  much  longed-for  hundred  pounds  to  the 
benefit-fund  by  a little  jeu  d’esprit  in  form  of  a 
history  of  the  trip,  to  be  published  with  illustra- 
tions from  the  artists ; and  his  notion  was  to 
write  it  in  the  character  of  Mrs.  Gamp.  It  was 
to  be,  in  the  phraseology  of  that  notorious  woman, 
a new  “ Piljians  Projiss and  was  to  bear  upon 
the  title  page  its  description  as  an  Account  of  a 
late  Expedition  into  the  North,  for  an  Amateur 
Theatrical  Benefit,  written  by  Mrs.  Gamp  (who 
was  an  eye-witness),  Inscribed  to  Mrs.  Harris, 
Edited  by  Charles  Dickens,  and  published,  with 
illustrations  on  wood  by  so  and  so,  in  aid  of  the 
Benefit-fund.  “ What  do  you  think  of  this  idea 
for  it  ? The  argument  would  be,  that  Mrs.  Gamp, 
being  on  the  eve  of  an  excursion  to  Margate  as 


225 


a relief  from  her  professional  fatigues,  comes  to 
the  knowledge  of  the  intended  excursion  of  our 
party ; hears  that  several  of  the  ladies  concerned 
are  in  an  interesting  situation ; and  decides  to 
accompany  the  party  unbeknown,  in  a second- 
class  carriage — ‘ in  case.’  There,  she  finds  a 
gentleman  from  the  Strand  in  a checked  suit, 
who  is  going  down  with  the  wigs” — the  thea- 
trical hairdresser  employed  on  these  occasions, 
Mr.  Wilson,  had  eccentric  points  of  character 
that  were  a fund  of  infinite  mirth  to  Dickens — 
“ and  to  his  politeness  Mrs.  Gamp  is  indebted 
for  much  support  and  countenance  during  the 
excursion.  She  will  describe  the  whole  thing  in 
her  own  manner : sitting,  in  each  place  of  per- 
formance, in  the  orchestra,  next  the  gentleman 
who  plays  the  kettle-drums.  She  gives  her 
critical  opinion  of  Ben  Jonson  as  a literary 
character,  and  refers  to  the  different  members 
of  the  party,  in  the  course  of  her  description  of 
the  trip  : having  always  an  invincible  animosity 
towards  Jerrold,  for  Caudle  reasons.  She  ad- 
dresses herself,  generally,  to  Mrs.  Harris,  to 
whom  the  book  is  dedicated, — but  is  discursive. 
Amount  of  matter,  half  a sheet  of  Dombey : may 
be  a page  or  so  more,  but  not  less.”  Alas  ! it 
never  arrived  at  even  that  small  size,  but  perished 
prematurely,  as  I feared  it  would,  from  failure  of 
the  artists  to  furnish  needful  nourishment.  Of 
course  it  could  not  live  alone.  Without  suitable 
illustration  it  must  have  lost  its  point  and  plea- 
santry. “ Mac  will  make  a little  garland  of  the 
ladies  for  the  title-page.  Egg  and  Stone  will 
themselves  originate  something  fanciful,  and  I 
will  settle  with  Cruikshank  and  Leech.  I have 
no  doubt  the  little  thing  will  be  droll  and  attrac- 
tive.” So  it  certainly  would  have  been,  if  the 
Thanes  of  art  had  not  fallen  from  him ; but  on 
their  desertion  it  had  to  be  abandoned  after  the 
first  few  pages  were  written.  They  were  placed 
at  my  disposal  then ; and,  though  the  little  jest 
has  lost  much  of  its  flavour  now,  I cannot  find 
it  in  my  heart  to  omit  them  here.  There  are  so 
many  friends  of  Mrs.  Gamp  who  will  rejoice  at 
this  unexpected  visit  from  her ! 

“ I.  MRS.  GAMP’S  ACCOUNT  OF  HER  CON- 
NEXION WITH  THIS  AFFAIR. 

“ Which  Mrs,  Harris’s  own  words  to  me,  was 
these  : ‘ Sairey  Gamp,’  she  says,  ‘ why  not  go  to 
Margate?  Srimps,’  says  that  dear  creetur,  ‘is 
to  your  liking,  Sairey  : why  not  go  to  Margate 
for  a week,  bring  your  constitootion  up  with 
srimps,  and  come  back  to  them  loving  arts  as 
knows  and  wallies  of  you,  blooming?  Sairey,’ 
Mrs.  Harris  says,  ‘ you  are  but  poorly.  Don't 
denige  it,  Mrs.  Gamp,  for  books  is  in  your 


226 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICI^ENS. 


looks.  You  must  have  rest.  Your  mind,’  she 
says,  ‘ is  too  strong  for  you ; it  gets  you  down 
and  treads  upon  you,  Sairey.  It  is  useless  to 
disguige  the  fact — the  blade  is  a wearing  out 
the  sheets.’  ‘ Mrs.  Harris,’  I says  to  her,  ‘ I 
could  not  undertake  to  say,  and  I will  not  de- 
ceive you  ma’am,  that  I am  the  woman  I could 
wish  to  be.  The  time  of  worrit  as  I had  with 
Mrs.  Colliber,  the  baker’s  lady,  which  was  so 
bad  in  her  mind  with  her  first,  that  she  would 
not  so  much  as  look  at  bottled  stout,  and  kept 
to  gruel  through  the  month,  has  agued  me,  Mrs. 
Harris.  Eut  ma’am,’  I says  to  her,  ‘ talk  not  of 
Margate,  for  if  I do  go  anywheres,  it  is  else- 
wheres  and  not  there.’  ‘ Sairey,’  says  Mrs. 
Harris,  solemn,  ‘whence  this  mystery?  If  I 
have  ever  deceived  the  hardest-working,  sober- 
est, and  best  of  women,  which  her  name  is  well 
beknown  is  S.  Gamp  Midwife  Kingsgate  Street 
High  Holborn,  mention  it.  If  not,’  says  Mrs. 
Harris,  with  the  tears  a standing  in  her  eyes, 
‘ reweal  your  intentions.’  ‘Yes,  Mrs.  Harris,’  I 
says,  ‘ I will.  Well  I knows  you  Mrs.  Harris ; 
well  you  knows  me ; well  we  both  knows  wot 
the  characters  of  one  another  is.  Mrs.  Harris 
then,’  I sa3's,  ‘ I have  heerd  as  there  is  a expe- 
dition going  down  to  Manjestir  and  Liverspool, 
a play-acting.  If  I goes  anywheres  for  change, 
it  is  along  with  that.’  Mrs.  Harris  clasps  her 
hands,  and  drops  into  a chair,  as  if  her  time 
was  come — which  I know’d  it  couldn’t  be,  by 
rights,  for  six  weeks  odd.  ‘ And  have  I lived 
to  hear,’  she  says,  ‘ of  Sairey  Gamp,  as  always 
kept  hersef  respectable,  in  company  with  play- 
actors ! ’ ‘ Mrs.  Harris,’  I says  to  her,  ‘ be  not 

alarmed — not  reg’lar  play-actors — hammertoors.’ 
‘ Thank  Evans  ! ’ says  Mrs.  Harris,  and  bustiges 
into  a flood  of  tears. 

“ When  the  sweet  creetur  had  compoged  hersef 
(which  a sip  of  brandy  and  water  Avarm,  and 
sugared  pleasant,  with  a little  nutmeg  did  it),  I 
proceeds  in  these  words.  ‘Mrs.  Harris,  I am 
told  as  these  Plammertoors  are  litter’ry  and 
artistickle.’  ‘Sairey,’  says  that  best  of  wimmin, 
with  a shiver  and  a slight  relasp,  ‘go  on,  it 
might  be  worse.’  ‘ I likewise  hears,’  I says  to 
her,  ‘ that  they’re  agoin  play-acting,  for  the 
benefit  of  two  litter’ry  men ; one  as  has  had  his 
wrongs  a long  time  ago,  and  has  got  his  rights 
at  last,  and  one  as  has  made  a many  people 
merry  in  his  time,  but  is  very  dull  and  sick 
and  lonely  his  own  sef,  indeed.’  ‘ Sairey,’  says 
Mrs.  Harris,  ‘ you’re  an  Inglish  woman,  and 
that’s  no  business  of  you’rn.’ 

“ ‘ No,  Mrs.  Harris,’  I says,  ‘ that’s  very  true  ; 
I hope  I knows  my  dooty  and  my  country. 
Eut,’  I says,  ‘ I am  informed  as  there  is  Ladies 


in  this  party,  and  that  half  a dozen  of  ’em,  if 
not  more,  is  in  various  stages  of  a interesting 
state,  Mrs.  Harris,  you  and  me  well  knows 
what  Ingeins  often  does.  If  I accompanies 
this  expedition,  unbeknown  and  second  cladge, 
may  I not  combine  my  calling  with  change  of 
air,  and  prove  a service  to  my  feller  creeturs  ? ’ 

‘ Sairey,’  was  Mrs.  Harris’s  reply,  ‘ you  was  born 
to  be  a blessing  to  your  sex,  and  bring  ’em 
through  it.  Good  go  with  you  ! But  keep  your 
distance  till  called  in.  Lord  bless  you  Mrs. 
Gamp ; for  people  is  known  by  the  company 
they  keeps,  and  litterary  and  artistickle  society 
might  be  the  ruin  of  you  before  you  was  aware, 
with  your  best  customers,  both  sick  and 
monthly,  if  they  took  a pride  in  themselves.’ 

“ II.  MRS.  GAMP  IS  DESCRIPTIVE. 

“ The  number  of  the  cab  had  a seven  in  it  I 
think,  and  a ought  I know- — and  if  this  should 
meet  his  eye  (which  it  was  a black  ’un,  new- 
done,  that  he  saw  with  ; the  other  was  tied  up), 
I give  him  warning  that  he’d  better  take  that 
umbreller  and  patten  to  the  Hackney-coach 
Office  before  he  repents  it.  He  was  a young 
man  in  a weskit  with  sleeves  to  it  and  strings 
behind,  and  needn’t  flatter  himsef  with  a suppo- 
gition  of  escape,  as  I gave  this  description  of 
him  to  the  Police  the  moment  I found  he  had 
drove  off  with  my  property ; and  if  he  thinks 
there  an’t  laws  enough  he’s  much  mistook — I 
tell  him  that. 

“ I do  assure  you,  Mrs.  Harris,  Avhen  I stood 
in  the  raihvays  office  that  morning  Avith  my 
bundle  on  my  arm  and  one  patten  in  my  hand, 
you  might  have  knocked  me  down  Avith  a 
feather,  far  less  porkmangers  Avhich  AA'as  a lump- 
ing against  me,  continual  and  sewere  all  round. 

I Avas  drove  about  like  a brute  animal  and 
almost  Avorritted  into  fits,  Avhen  a gentleman 
Avith  a large  shirt-collar  and  a hook  nose,  and  a 
eye  like  one  of  Mr.  Sweedlepipe’s  hawks,  and 
long  locks  of  hair,  and  Avhiskers  that  I Avouldn’t 
have  no  lady  as  I Avas  engaged  to  meet  sud- 
denly a turning  round  a corner,  for  any  sum  of 
money  you  could  oiler  me,  says,  laughing, 

‘ Halloa,  Mrs.  Gamp,  Avhat  are  you  up  to  ! ’ I 
didn’t  knoAv  him  from  a man  (except  by  his 
clothes) ; but  I says  faintly,  ‘ If  you’re  a Ghris- 
tian  man,  show  me  Avhere  to  get  a sccond-cladge 
ticket  for  Manjestir,  and  have  me  ])ut  in  a car- 
riage, or  I shall  drop  ! ’ Which  he  kindly  did, 
in  a cheerful  kind  of  Avay,  skipping  about  in  the 
strangest  manner  as  ever  I see,  making  all  kinds 
of  actions,  and  looking  and  vinking  at  me  from 
under  the  brim  of  his  hat  (Avhich  Avas  a gooil 
deal  turned  up),  to  that  extent,  that  I should 


1 SPLENDID  STROLLING.  227 

have  thought  he  meant  something  but  for  being 
so  Hurried  as  not  to  have  no  thoughts  at  all 
until  I was  put  into  a carriage  along  with  a in- 
ilividgle — the  politest  as  ever  I see — in  a shep- 
herd’s plaid  suit  with  a long  gold  watch-guard 
hanging  rouml  his  neck,  and  his  hand  a trem- 
bling through  nervousness  worse  than  a aspian 
leaf. 

“ ‘ I’m  wery  appy,  ma’am,’  he  says — the 
politest  vice  as  ever  I heerd  ! — ‘ to  go  down 
with  a lady  belonging  to  our  party.’ 

“ ‘ Our  party,  sir  ! ’ I says. 

“ ‘ Yes,  ma’am,’  he  says,  ‘ I’m  Mr.  Wilson. 
I'm  going  down  with  the  wigs.’ 

“ Mrs.  Harris,  Aven  he  said  he  Avas  going 
down  Avith  the  Avigs,  such  Avas  my  state  of  con- 
fugion  and  AA'orrit  that  I thought  he  must  be 
connected  Avith  the  Government  in  some  Avays 
or  another,  but  directly  moment  he  explains 
himsef,  for  he  says  : 

“‘There's  not  a theatre  in  London  Avorth 
mentioning  that  I don’t  attend  punctually. 
There’s  five-and-tAventy  Avigs  in  these  boxes, 
ma’am,’  he  says,  a pinting  tOAvards  a heap  of 
luggage,  ‘ as  AA'as  Avorn  at  the  Queen’s  Fancy 
Ball.  There’s  a black  Avig,  ma’am,’  he  says,  ‘ as 
Avas  Avorn  by  Garrick ; there’s  a red  one,  ma’am,’ 
he  says,  ‘ as  Avas  AVOrn  by  Kean ; there’s  a broAvn 
one,  ma’am,’  he  says,  ‘ as  Avas  Avorn  by  Kemble ; 
there’s  a yelloAv  one,  ma’am,’  he  says,  ‘ as  Avas 
made  for  Cooke  ; there’s  a grey  one,  ma’am,’ 
he  says,  ‘as  I measured  Mr.  Young  for,  mysef; 
and  there’s  a Avhite  one,  ma’am,  that  Mr. 
Macready  Avent  mad  in.  There’s  a flaxen  one 
as  Avas  got  up  express  for  Jenny  Lind  the  night 
she  came  out  at  the  Italian  Opera.  It  Avas  very 
much  applauded  Avas  that  Avig,  ma’am,  through 
the  evening.  It  had  a great  reception.  The 
audience  broke  out  the  moment  they  see  it.’ 

“ ‘ Are  you  in  Mr.  SAA-eedlepipe’s  line,  sir  ? ’ 
I says. 

“ ‘ Which  is  that,  ma’am  ? ’ he  says — the  soft- 
est and  genteelest  vice  I ever  heerd,  I do  de- 
clare, Mrs.  Harris. 

“ ‘ Hair-dressing,’  I says. 

“‘Yes,  ma’am,’  he  replies,  ‘I  have  that 
honour.  Do  you  see  this,  ma’am  ? ’ he  says, 
holding  up  his  right  hand. 

“ ‘ I never  see  such  a trembling,’  I says  to 
him.  And  I never  did  ! 

“ ‘ All  along  of  Her  Afajesty’s  Costume  Ball, 
ma’am,’  he  says.  ‘ The  excitement  did  it. 
Two  hundred  and  fifty-seven  ladies  of  the  first 
rank  and  fashion  had  their  heads  got  up  on 
that  occasion  by  this  hand,  and  my  t’other  one. 
I Avas  at  it  eight-and-forty  hours  on  my  feet, 
ma’am,  Avithout  rest.  It  Avas  a PoAvder  ball. 

ma’am.  We  have  a PoAvder  piece  at  Liverpool. 
Have  I not  the  pleasure,’  he  says,  looking  at 
me  curious,  ‘ of  addressing  Mrs.  Gamp  ? ’ 

“ ‘ Gamp  I am,  sir,’  I replies.  ‘ Both  by  name 
and  nalur.’ 

“ ‘ Would  you  like  to  see  your  beeograffer’s 
moustache  and  Avhiskers,  ma’am  ? ’ he  says. 

‘ I’ve  got  ’em  in  this  box.’ 

“ ‘ l3rat  my  beeograffer,  sir,’  I says,  ‘ he  has 
given  me  no  region  to  Avish  to  knoAV  anythink 
about  him.’ 

“ ‘ Oh,  Missus  Gamp,  I ask  your  parden  ’ — I 
never  see  such  a polite  man,  Mrs.  Harris ! 
‘ P’raps,’  he  says,  ‘ if  you’re  not  of  the  party, 
you  don’t  knoAV  Avho  it  Avas  that  assisted  you 
into  this  carriage  ! ’ 

“ ‘ No,  sir,’  I says,  ‘ I don’t,  indeed.’ 

“ ‘ Why,  ma’am,’  he  says,  a Avisperin’,  ‘ that 
Avas  George,  ma’am.’ 

“ ‘ What  George,  sir  ? I don’t  knoAV  no 
George,’  says  I. 

“ ‘ The  great  George,  ma’am,’  says  he.  ‘ The 
Crookshanks.’ 

“ If  you’ll  believe  me,  Mrs.  Harris,  I turns 
my  head,  and  see  the  Avery  man  a making  pic- 
turs  of  me  on  his  thumb  nail,  at  the  winder  ! 
Avhile  another  of  ’em — a tall,  slim,  melancolly 
gent,  Avith  dark  hair  and  a bage  vice — looks 
over  his  shoulder,  Avith  his  head  0’  one  side  as  if 
he  understood  the  subject,  and  cooly  says,  ‘7’ve 
draw’d  her  several  times — in  Punch,’  he  says  too  ! 
The  owdacious  Avretch  ! 

“ ‘ Which  I never  touches,  Mr.  Wilson,’  I re- 
marks out  loud — I couldn’t  have  helped  it,  Mrs. 
Harris,  if  you  had  took  my  life  for  it  ! — ‘ Avhich 
I never  touches,  Mr.  Wilson,  on  account  of  the 
lemon  ! ’ 

“ ‘ Hush  ! ’ says  Mr.  Wilson.  ‘ There  he  is  ! ’ 
“ I only  see  a fat  gentleman  Avith  curly  black 
hair  and  a merry  face,  a standing  on  the  plat- 
form rubbing  his  tAvo  hands  over  one  another, 
as  if  he  Avas  Avashing  of  ’em,  and  shaking  his 
head  and  shoulders  Avery  much  ; and  I Avas  a 
Avondering  Avot  Mr.  Wilson  meant,  Aven  he  says, 

‘ There’s  Dougladge,  Mrs.  Gamp,’  he  says. 

‘ There’s  hinr  as  Avrote  the  life  of  Mrs.  Caudle  ! ’ 
“ Mrs.  Harris,  Aven  I see  that  little  Avillain 
bodily  before  me,  it  give  me  such  a turn  that  I 
Avas  all  in  a tremble.  If  I hadn’t  lost  my  um- 
bereller  in  the  cab,  I must  have  done  him  a 
injury  Avith  it  ! Oh  the  bragian  little  traitor ! 
right  among  the  ladies,  Mrs.  Harris;  looking 
his  Avickedest  and  deceitfullest  of  eyes  Avhile  he 
Avas  a talking  to  ’em ; laughing  at  his  OAvn  jokes 
as  loud  as  you  please ; holding  his  hat  in  one 
hand  to  cool  his-sef,  and  tossing  back  his  iron- 
grey  mop  of  a head  of  hair  Avith  the  other,  as  if 

22S 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


it  was  so  much  shavings — there,  Mrs.  Harris,  I 
see  liim  getting  encouragement  from  the  pretty 
delooded  creeturs,  which  never  know’d  that 
sweet  saint,  Mrs.  C,  as  I did,  and  being  treated 
with  as  much  confidence  as  if  he’d  never  wio- 
lated  none  of  the  domestic  ties,  and  never 


sliowed  up  nothing  ! Oh  tlie  aggrawation  of 
that  Dougladge ! Mrs.  Harris,  if  I hadn’t 
apologiged  to  Mr.  Wilson,  and  put  a little 
bottle  to  my  lips  which  was  in  my  pocket  for 
the  journey,  and  which  it  is  very  rare  indeed  I 
have  about  me,  I could  not  have  abared  the 


■ HALLOA,  MRS.  GAMP,  WHAT  ARE  YOU  UP  TO  ! ” 


sight  of  him — there,  Mrs.  Harris  ! I could  not  ! 
— I must  have  tore  him,  or  have  give  way  and 
fainted. 

“ While  the  bell  was  a ringing,  and  the  lug- 
gage of  the  hammertoors  in  great  confugion — all 
a litter’ry  indeed — was  handled  up,  Mr.  Wilson 


demeens  his-sef  politer  than  ever.  '■  That,’  he 
says,  ‘Mrs.  Gamp,’  a pinting  to  a officer-looking 
gentleman,  that  a lady  with  a little  basket  was  a 
taking  care  on,  ‘is  another  of  our  party.  He’s 
a author  too — continivally  going  up  the  walley 
of  the  Muses,  Mrs.  Gamp.  There,’  he  says. 


SPLENDID  STROLLING. 


alluding  to  a fine  looking,  portly  gentleman, 
with  a filce  like  a amiable  full  moon,  and  a 
short  mild  gent,  with  a pleasant  smile,  ‘ is  two 
more  of  our  artists,  Mrs.  G,  well  beknowed  at 
the  Royal  Academy,  as  sure  as  stones  is  stones, 
and  eggs  is  eggs.  This  resolute  gent,’  he  says, 
‘ a coming  along  here  as  is  aperrently  going  to 
take  the  railways  by  storm — him  with  the  tight 
legs,  and  his  weskit  very  much  buttoned,  and 
his  mouth  very  much  shut,  and  his  coat  a flying 
open,  and  his  heels  a giving  it  to  the  platform, 
is  a cricket  and  beeograffer,  and  our  principal 
tragegian.’  ‘But  who,’  says  I,  when  the  bell 
had  left  off,  and  the  train  had  begun  to  move, 
‘ who,  Mr.  Wilson,  is  the  wild  gent  in  the  pres- 
piration,  that’s  been  a tearing  up  and  down  all 
this  time  with  a great  box  of  papers  under  his 
arm,  a talking  to  everybody  wery  indistinct,  and 
exciting  of  himself  dreadful  ? ’ ‘ Why  ? ’ says  Mr. 
Wilson,  with  a smile.  ‘ Because,  sir,’  I says, 
‘ he’s  being  left  behind.’  ‘ Good  God  ! ’ cries 
Mr.  Wilson,  turning  pale  and  putting  out  his 
head,  ‘ it’s  your  beeografter — the  Manager — and 
he  has  got  the  money,  Mrs.  Gamp ! ’ Hous’- 
ever,  some  one  chucked  him  into  the  train  and 
we  went  off.  At  the  first  shreek  of  the  whistle, 
Mrs.  Harris,  I turned  white,  for  I had  took 
notice  of  some  of  them  dear  creeturs  as  was  the 
cause  of  my  being  in  company,  and  I know’d 
the  danger  that — but  Mr.  Wilson,  which  is  a 
married  man,  puts  his  hand  on  mine,  and  says, 
‘Mrs.  Gamp,  calm  yourself;  it’s  only  the  In- 
gein.’  ” 

Of  those  of  the  party  with  whom  these  hu- 
morous liberties  were  taken,  there  are  only  two 
now  living  to  complain  of  their  friendly  carica- 
turist ; and  Mr.  Cruikshank  will  perhaps  join 
me  in  a frank  forgiveness  not  the  less  heartily 
for  the  kind  w’ords  about  himself  that  reached 
me  from  Broadstairs  not  many  days  after  Mrs. 
Gamp.  “At  Canterbury  yesterday”  (2nd  of 
September)  “ I bought  George  Cruikshank’s 
Bottle.  I think  it  very  powerful  indeed ; the 
two  last  plates  most  admirable,  except  that  the 
boy  and  girl  in  the  very  last  are  too  young,  and 
the  girl  more  like  a circus-phenomenon  than 
that  no-phenomenon  she  is  intended  to  repre- 
sent. I question,  however,  whether  anybody 
else  living  could  have  done  it  so  well.  There 
is  a woman  in  the  last  plate  but  one,  garrulous 
about  the  murder,  with  a child  in  her  arms,  that 
is  as  good  as  Hogarth.  Also,  the  man  who  is 
stooping  down,  looking  at  the  body.  The  phi- 
losophy of  the  thing,  as  a great  lesson,  I think 
all  wrong  ; because  to  be  striking,  and  original 
too,  the  drinking  should  have  begun  in  sorrow, 
or  poverty,  or  ignorance — the  three  things  in 
Libe  of  Charles  Dickens,  16. 


229 


which,  in  its  awful  aspect,  it  does  begin.  The 
design  would  then  have  been  a double-handed 
sword — but  too  ‘ radical  ’ for  good  old  George, 
I suppose.” 

The  same  letter  made  mention  of  other  mat- 
ters of  interest.  His  accounts  for  the  first  half- 
year  of  Doinbey  were  so  much  in  excess  of  what 
had  been  expected  from  the  new  publishing 
arrangements,  that  from  this  date  all  embarrass- 
ments connected  with  money  were  brought  to  a 
close.  His  future  profits  varied  of  course  with 
his  varying  sales,  but  there  was  always  enough, 
and  savings  were  now  to  begin.  “ The  profits 
of  the  half-year  are  brilliant.  Deducting  the 
hundred  pounds  a month  paid  six  times,  I have 
still  to  receive  two  thousand  two  hundred  and 
twenty  pounds,  which  I think  is  tidy.  Don’t 
you  ? ...  . Stone  is  still  here,  and  I lamed 
his  foot  by  walking  him  seventeen  miles  the 
day  before  yesterday  ; but  otherwise  he  flourish- 
eth Why  don’t  you  bring  down  a carpet- 

bag-full of  books,  and  take  possession  of  the 
drawing-room  all  the  morning  ? My  opinion  is 
that  Goldsmith  would  die  more  easy  by  the  sea- 
side. Charley  and  Walley  have  been  taken  to 
school  this  morning  in  high  spirits,  and  at 
London  Bridge  will  be  folded  in  the  arms  of 
Blimber.  The  Government  is  about  to  issue  a 
Sanitary  commission,  and  Lord  John,  I am 
right  well  pleased  to  say,  has  appointed  Henry 
Austin  secretary.”  Mr.  Austin,  who  afterwards 
held  the  same  office  under  the  Sanitary  act,  had 
married  his  youngest  sister  Letitia ; and  of  his 
two  youngest  brothers  I may  add  that  Alfred, 
also  a civil-engineer,  became  one  of  the  sanitary 
inspectors,  and  that  Augustus  was  now  placed 
in  a city  employment  by  Mr.  Thomas  Chapman, 
which  after  a little  time  he  surrendered,  and 
then  found  his  way  to  America,  where  he  died. 

The  next  Broadstairs  letter  (5  th  of  Septem- 
ber) resumed  the  subject  of  Goldsmith,  whose 
life  I was  then  bringing  nearly  to  completion. 
“Supposing  your  Golds7nith  made  a general 
sensation,  what  should  you  think  of  doing  a 
cheap  edition  of  his  works  ? I have  an  idea 
that  we  might  do  some  things  of  that  sort  with 
considerable  effect.  There  is  really  no  edition 
of  the  great  British  novelists  in  a handy  nice 
form,  and  would  it  not  be  a likely  move  to  do 
it  with  some  attractive  feature  that  could  not  be 
given  to  it  by  the  Teggs  and  such  people  ? 
Supposing  one  wrote  an  essay  on  Fielding  for 
instance,  and  another  on  Smollett,  and  another 
on  Sterne,  recalling  how  one  read  them  as  a 
child  (no  one  read  them  younger  than  I,  I 
think),  and  how  one  gradually  grew  up  into  a 
different  knowledge  of  them,  and  so  forth — 

424 


230 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


would  it  not  be  interesting  to  many  people  ? I 
should  like  to  know  if  you  descry  anything  in 
this.  It  is  one  of  the  dim  notions  fluctuating 

within  me The  profits,  brave  indeed, 

are  four  hundred  pounds  more  than  the  utmost 

I expected The  same  yearnings  have 

been  mine,  in  reference  to  the  Praslin  business. 
It  is  pretty  clear  to  me,  for  one  thing,  that  the 
Duchess  was  one  of  the  most  uncomfortable 
women  in  the  world,  and  that  it  would  have 
been  hard  work  for  anybody  to  have  got  on 
with  her.  It  is  strange  to  see  a bloody  reflec- 
tion of  our  friends  Eugene  Sue  and  Dumas  in 
the  whole  melodrama.  Don’t  you  think  so 
....  remembering  what  we  often  said  of  the 
canker  at  the  root  of  all  that  Paris  life  ? I 
dreamed  of  you,  in  a wild  manner,  all  last 

night A sea  fog  here,  which  prevents 

one’s  seeing  the  low-water  mark.  A circus  on 
the  cliff  to  the  right,  and  of  course  I have  a box 
to-night ! Deep  slowness  in  the  inimitable’s 
brain.  A shipwreck  on  the  Goodwin  sands  last 
Sunday,  which  Wally,  with  a hawk’s  eye,  saw 
GO  DOWN : for  which  assertion,  subsequently 
confirmed  and  proved,  he  was  horribly  mal- 
treated at  the  time.” 

Devonshire-terrace  meanwhile  had  been  quit- 
ted by  his  tenant ; and  coming  up  joyfully  him- 
self to  take  possession,  he  brought  for  comple- 
tion in  his  old  home  an  important  chapter  of 
Domhey.  On  the  way  he  lost  his  portmanteau, 
but  “ Thank  God ! the  MS.  of  the  chapter 
wasn’t  in  it.  Whenever  I travel,  and  have  any- 
thing of  that  valuable  article,  I always  carry  it 
in  my  pocket.”  He  had  begun  at  this  time  to 
find  difficulties  in  writing  at  Broadstairs,  of 
which  he  told  me  on  his  return.  ‘-Vagrant 
music  is  getting  to  that  height  here,  and  is  so 
impossible  to  be  escaped  from,  that  I fear 
Broadstairs  and  I must  part  company  in  time  to 
come.  Unless  it  pours  of  rain,  I cannot  write 
half-an-hour  without  the  most  excruciating 
organs,  fiddles,  bells,  or  glee-singers.  There  is 
a violin  of  the  most  torturing  kind  under  the 
window  now  (time,  ten  in  the  morning)  and  an 
Italian  box  of  music  on  the  steps — both  in  full 
blast.”  He  closed  with  a mention  of  improve- 
ments in  the  Margate  theatre  since  his  memo- 
rable last  visit.  In  the  past  two  years  it  had 
been  managed  by  a son  of  the  great  comedian, 
Dowton,  with  whose  name  it  is  pleasant  to  con- 
nect this  note.  “ We  went  to  the  manager’s 
benefit  on  Wednesday”  (loth  of  September): 
“yfj  Yoii  Like  It  really  very  well  done,  and  a 
most  excellent  house.  Mr.  Dowton  delivered  a 
sensible  and  modest  kind  of  speech  on  the  occa- 
sion. setting  forth  his  conviction  that  a means 


of  instruction  and  entertainment  possessing  such 
a literature  as  the  stage  in  England,  could  not 
pass  away ; and  that  what  inspired  great  minds, 
and  delighted  great  men,  two  thousand  years 
ago,  and  did  the  same  in  Shakespeare’s  day, 
must  have  within  itself  a principle  of  life  supe- 
rior to  the  whim  and  fashion  of  the  hour.  And 
with  that,  and  with  cheers,  he  retired.  He 
really  seems  a most  respectable  man,  and  he 
has  cleared  out  this  dust-hole  of  a theatre  into 
something  like  decency.” 

He  was  to  be  in  London  at  the  end  of  the 
month : but  I had  from  him  meanwhile  his 
preface  for  his  first  completed  book  in  the 
popular  edition  {Pickwick  being  now  issued  in 
that  form,  with  an  illustration  by  Leslie) ; and 
sending  me  shortly  after  (12th  of  Sept.)  the  first 
few  slips  of  the  story  of  the  Haimtcd  Man  pro- 
posed for  his  next  Christmas  book,  he  told  me 
he  must  finish  it  in  less  than  a month  if  it  was 
to  be  done  at  all,  Domhey  having  now  become 
very  importunate.  This  prepared  me  for  his 
letter  of  a week’s  later  date.  “ Have  been  at 
work  all  day,  and  am  seedy  in  consequence. 
Domhey  takes  so  much  time,  and  requires  to  be 
so  carefully  done,  that  I really  begin  to  have 
serious  doubts  whether  it  is  wise  to  go  on  with 
the  Christmas  book.  Your  kind  help  is  in- 
voked. What  do  you  think?  Would  there  be 
any  distinctly  bad  effect  in  holding  this  idea 
over  for  another  twelvemonth  ? saying  nothing 
whatever  till  November;  and  then  announcing 
in  the  Domhey  that  its  occupation  of  my  entire 
time  prevents  the  continuance  of  the  Christmas 
series  until  next  year,  when  it  is  proposed  to  be 
renewed.  There  might  not  be  anything  in  that 
but  a possibility  of  an  extra  lift  for  the  little 
book  when  it  did  come — eh  ? On  the  other 
hand,  I am  very  loath  to  lose  the  money.  And 
still  more  so  to  leave  any  gap  at  Christmas  fire- 
sides which  I ought  to  fill.  In  short  I am  (for- 
give the  expression)  blowed  if  I know  what  to 
do.  I am  a literary  Kitely — and  you  ought  to 
sympathize  and  help.  If  I had  no  Domhey,  I 
could  write  and  finish  the  story  with  the  bloom 
on but  there’s  the  rub Which  un- 

familiar quotation  reminds  me  of  a Sliakspearian 
(put  an  e before  the  s ; I like  it  much  better) 
speculation  of  mine.  What  do  you  say  to  ‘ take 
arms  against  a sea  of  troubles  ’ having  been 
originally  written  ‘ make  arms,’  which  is  the 
action  of  swimming.  It  would  get  rid  of  a hor- 
rible grievance  in  the  figure,  and  make  it  irlain 
and  apt.  I think  of  setting  up  a claim  to  live 
in  The  House  at  Stratford  rent-free,  on  the 
strength  of  this  suggestion.  You  arc  not  to 
suppose  that  I am  anything  but  disconcerted 


SPLENDID  STROLLING. 


to-day,  in  the  agitation  of  my  soul  concerning 
Christmas ; but  I have  been  brooding,  like 
Dombey  himself,  over  these  two  days, 

until  I really  can’t  afford  to  be  depressed.”  To 
his  Shakespearian  suggestion  I replied  that  it 
would  hardly  give  him  the  claim  he  thought  of 
setting  up,  for  that  swimming  through  your 
troubles  would  not  be  “opposing”  them.  And 
upon  the  other  point  I had  no  doubt  of  the 
wisdom  of  delay.  The  result  was  that  the 
Christmas  story  was  laid  aside  until  the  follow- 
ing year. 

The  year’s  closing  incidents  were  his  chair- 
manship at  a meeting  of  the  Leeds  Mechanics’ 
Society  on  the  ist  of  December,  and  his  opening 
■of  the  Glasgow  Athenaeum  on  the  28th;  where, 
to  immense  assemblages  in  both,  he  contrasted 
the  obstinacy  and  cruelty  of  the  power  of  igno- 
rance with  the  docility  and  gentleness  of  the 
power  of  knowledge  ; pointed  the  use  of  popu- 
lar institutes  in  supplementing  what  is  first 
learnt  in  life,  by  the  later  education  for  its  em- 
ployments and  the  equipment  for  its  domestici- 
ties and  duties,  which  the  grown  person  needs 
from  day  to  day  as  much  as  the  child  its  reading 
and  writing ; and  he  closed  at  Glasgow  with 
allusion  to  a bazaar  set  on  foot  by  the  ladies  of 
the  city,  under  patronage  of  the  Queen,  for  add- 
ing books  to  its  Athenaeum  library.  “ We  never 
tire  of  the  friendships  we  form  with  books,”  he 
said,  “and  here  they  will  possess  the  added 
charm  of  association  with  their  donors.  Some 
neighbouring  Glasgow  widow  will  be  mistaken 
for  that  remoter  one  whom  Sir  Roger  de  Cover- 
ley  could  not  forget;  Sophia’s  muff  will  be  seen 
and  loved,  by  another  than  Tom  Jones,  going 
down  the  High  Street  some  winter  day;  and 
the  grateful  students  of  a library  thus  filled  will 
be  apt,  as  to  the  fair  ones  who  have  helped  to 
people  it,  to  couple  them  in  their  thoughts  with 
Principles  of  the  Population  and  Additions  to 
the  History  of  Europe,  by  an  author  of  older 
date  than  Sheriff  Alison.”  At  which  no  one 
laughed  so  loudly  as  the  Sheriff  himself,  who 
had  cordially  received  Dickens  as  his  guest,  and 
stood  with  him  on  the  platform. 

On  the  last  day  but  one  of  the  old  year  he 
wrote  to  me  from  Edinburgh.  “We  came  over 
this  afternoon,  leaving  Glasgow  at  one  o’clock. 
Alison  lives  in  style  in  a handsome  country  house 
out  of  Glasgow,  and  is  a capital  fellow,  with  an 
agreeable  wife,  nice  little  daughter,  cheerful 
niece,  all  things  pleasant  in  his  household.  I 
went  over  the  prison  and  lunatic  asylum  with 
him  yesterday ; at  the  Lord  Provost’s  had  gor- 
geous state-lunch  with  the  Town  Council ; and 
Avas  entertained  at  a great  dinner-party  at  night. 


231 


Unbounded  hospitality  and  enthoozymoozy  the 
order  of  the  day,  and  I have  never  been  more 
heartily  received  anywhere,  or  enjoyed  myself 
more  completely.  The  great  chemist,  Gregory, 
who  spoke  at  the  meeting,  returned  with  us  to 
Edinburgh  to-day,  and  gave  me  many  new 
lights  on  the  road  regarding  the  extraordinary 
pains  Macaulay  seems  for  years  to  have  taken 
to  make  himself  disagreeable  and  disliked  here. 
No  one  else,  on  that  side,  would  have  had  the 
remotest  chance  of  being  unseated  at  the  last 
election ; and,  though  Gregory  voted  for  him,  I 
thought  he  seemed  quite  as  well  pleased  as  any- 
body else  that  he  didn’t  come  in I am 

sorry  to  report  the  Scott  Monument  a failure. 

It  is  like  the  spire  of  a Gothic  church  taken  off 
and  stuck  in  the  ground.”  On  the  first  day  of 
1848,  still  in  Edinburgh,  he  wrote  again  : “ Jef- 
frey, Avho  is  obliged  to  hold  a kind  of  morning 
court  in  his  own  study  during  the  holidays,  came 
up  yesterday  in  great  consternation,  to  tell  me 
that  a person  had  just  been  to  make  and  sign  a 
declaration  of  bankruptcy ; and  that  on  looking 
at  the  signature  he  saw  it  was  James  Sheridan 
Knowles.  He  immediately  sent  after,  and 
spoke  with  him ; and  .of  what  passed  I am 
eager  to  talk  with  you.”  The  talk  will  bring 
back  the  main  subject  of  this  chapter,  from 
which  another  kind  of  strolling  has  led  me 
aAvay  ; for  its  results  were  other  amateur  per- 
formances, of  which  the  object  was  to  benefit 
Knowles. 

This  was  the  year  when  a committee  had 
been  formed  for  the  purchase  and  preservation 
of  Shakespeare’s  house  at  Stratford,  and  the 
performances  in  question  took  the  form  of  con- 
tributions to  the  endowment  of  a curatorship  to 
be  held  by  the  author  of  Virginius  and  the 
Hunchback.  The  endowment  was  abandoned 
upon  the  town  and  council  of  Stratford  finally 
(and  very  properly)  taking  charge  of  the  house; 
but  the  sum  realised  was  not  rvithdrawn  from 
the  object  really  desired,  and  one  of  the  finest 
of  dramatists  profited  yet  more  largely  by  it  than 
Leigh  Hunt  did  by  the  former  enterprise.  It 
may  be  proper  to  remark  also,  that,  like  Leigh 
Hunt,  Knowles  received  soon  after,  through 
Lord  John  Russell,  the  same  liberal  pension ; j 
and  that  smaller  claims  to  which  attention  had  [ 
been  similarly  draAvn  Avere  not  forgotten,  Mr.  j 
Poole,  after  much  kind  help  from  the  Bounty  J 
Fund,  being  a little  later  placed  on  the  Civil  I 
List  for  half  the  amount  by  the  same  minister  [ 
and  friend  of  letters. 

Dickens  thrcAV  himself  into  the  neAV  scheme 
Avith  all  his  old  energy ; and  prefatory  mention 
may  be  made  of  our  difficulty  in  selection  of  a 


232  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICICENS. 

suitable  play  to  alternate  with  our  old  Ben 
Jonson.  The  Alchemist  had  been  such  a fa- 
\ourite  with  some  of  us,  that,  before  finally 
laying  it  aside,  we  went  through  two  or  three 
rehearsals,  in  which  I recollect  thinking  Dickens’s 
Sir  Epicure  Mammon  as  good  as  anything  he 
had  done ; and  now  the  same  trouble,  with  the 
same  result,  arising  from  a vain  desire  to  please 
everybody,  was  taken  successively  with  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher’s  Beggar's  Bush,  and  Gold- 
smith’s Good  Natured  Man,  with  Jerrold’s  cha- 
racteristic drama  of  the  Rent  Day,  and  Bulwer’s 
masterly  comedy  of  Money.  Choice  was  at  last 
made  of  Shakespeare’s  Merry  Wives,  in  which 
Lemon  played  Falstaff,  I took  again  the  jealous 
husband  as  in  Jonson’s  play,  and  Dickens  was 
Justice  Shallow;  to  which  was  added  a farce. 
Love,  Law,  and  Physick,  in  which  Dickens  took 
the  part  he  had  acted  long  ago,  before  his  days 
of  authorship;  and,  besides  the  professional 
actresses  engaged,  we  had  for  our  Dame  Quickly 
the  lady  to  whom  the  world  owes  incomparably 
the  best  Concordance  to  Shakespeare  that  has 
ever  been  published,  Mrs.  Cowden  Clarke.  The 
success  was  undoubtedly  very  great.  At  Man- 
chester, Liverpool,  and  Edinburgh  there  were 
single  representations ; but  Birmingham  and 
Glasgow  had  each  two  nights,  and  two  were 
given  at  the  Haymarket,  on  one  of  which  the 
Queen  and  Prince  were  present.  The  gross 
receipts  from  the  nine  performances,  before  the 
necessary  large  deductions  for  London  and 
local  charges,  were  two  thousand  five  hundred 
and  fifty-one  pounds  and  eightpence.*  The 
first  representation  was  in  London  on  the  15th 
of  April,  the  last  in  Glasgow  on  the  20th  of 
July,  and  everywhere  Dickens  was  the  leading 
figure.  In  the  enjoyment  as  in  the  labour  he 
was  first.  His  animal  spirits,  unresting  and 
supreme,  were  the  attraction  of  rehearsal  at 
morning,  and  of  the  stage  at  night.  At  the 
quiet  early  dinner,  and  the  more  jovial  unre- 
strained supper,  where  all  engaged  were  assem- 
bled daily,  his  was  the  brightest  face,  the 
lightest  step,  the  pleasantest  word.  There 
seemed  to  be  no  need  for  rest  to  that  wonderful 
vitality. 

Of  the  novel  begun  in  Switzerland,  at  which 
he  has  worked  assiduously  for  twenty  months, 
and  which  the  April  number  in  1848  brought 
to  its  close,  some  account  remains  to  be  given. 

* I give  the  sums  taken  at  the  several  theatres.  Hay- 
market,  ;^3i9  14J. ; Manchester,  ,^266  I2J-.  ini.  ; Liver- 
pool, ,1^407  6r.  Oi/. ; Birmingham,  lo^.,  and  £2^2 

iSr.  6(7.;  Edinburgh,  ;^32S  u.  6i7. ; Glasgow,  ;^47i 
7,r.  8d.  ; and  (at  half  tlie  prices  of  the  lirst  night) 
£210  ws. 

II. 

DOMBEY  AND  SON. 

1846—1848. 

his  proposed  new  “book  in 
shilling  numbers  ” had  been  men- 
three  months  before  he 
quitted  England,  he  knew  little  him- 
self  at  that  time  or  when  he  left  ex- 
cepting  the  fact,  then  also  named,  that  it 
was  to  do  with  Pride  what  its  predecessor 
had  done  with  Selfishness.  But  this  limit 
he  soon  overpassed  ; and  the  succession  of  inde- 
pendent groups  of  character,  surprising  for  the 
variety  of  their  forms  and  handling,  with  which 
he  enlarged  and  enriched  his  plan,  went  far 
beyond  the  range  of  the  passion  of  Mr.  Dombey 
and  Mr.  Dombey’s  second  wife. 

Obvious  causes  have  led  to  grave  under-esti- 
mates of  this  novel.  Its  first  five  numbers 
forced  up  interest  and  expectation  so  high  that 
the  rest  of  necessity  fell  short;  but  it  is  not 
therefore  true  of  the  general  conception  that 
thus  the  wine  of  it  had  been  drawn,  and  only 
the  lees  left.  In  the  treatment  of  acknowledged 
masterpieces  in  literature  it  not  seldom  occurs 
that  the  genius  and  the  art  of  the  master  have  not 
pulled  together  to  the  close  ; but  if  a work  of 
imagination  is  to  forfeit  its  higher  meed  of 
praise  because  its  pace  at  starting  has  not  been 
uniformly  kept,  hard  measure  would  have  to  be 
dealt  to  books  of  undeniable  greatness.  Among 
other  critical  severities  it  was  said  here,  that 
Paul  died  at  the  beginning  not  for  any  need  of 
the  story,  but  only  to  interest  its  readers  some- 
what more ; and  that  Mr.  Dombey  relented  at 
the  end  for  just  the  same  reason.  What  is  now 
to  be  told  will  show  how  little  ground  existed 
for  either  imputation.  The  so-called  “ violent 
change  ” in  the  hero  has  more  lately  been 
revived  in  the  notices  of  Mr.  Taine,  who  says 
that  “ it  spoils  a fine  novel but  it  will  be  seen 
that  in  the  apparent  alteration  no  unnaturalncss 
of  change  was  involved,  and  certainly  the  adop- 
tion of  it  was  not  a sacrifice  to  “ public  mo- 
rality." While  every  other  portion  of  the  tale 
had  to  submit  to  such  varieties  in  development 
as  the  characters  themselves  entailed,  the  design 
affecting  Paul  and  his  father  had  been  planned 
from  the  opening,  and  was  carried  without  real 
alteration  to  the  close.  Of  the  perfect  honesty 
with  which  Dickens  himself  rei)elled  such 
charges  as  those  to  which  1 have  adverted,  when 
he  wrote  the  preface  to  his  collected  edition, 
remarkable  proof  appears  in  the  letter  to  mysell 

DOMBEY  AND  SON.  233 

which  accompanied . the  manuscript  of  his  pro- 
posed first  number.  No  other  line  of  the  tale 
had  at  this  time  been  placed  on  paper. 

When  the  first  chapter  only  was  done,  and 
again  when  all  was  finished  but  eight  slips,  he 
had  sent  me  letters  formerly  quoted.  What  fol- 
lows came  with  the  manuscript  of  the  first  four 
chapters  on  the  25th  of  July.  “ I will  now  go 
on  to  give  you  an  outline  of  my  immediate 
intentions  in  reference  to  Dombey.  I design  to 
show  Mr.  D.  with  that  one  idea  of  the  Son 
taking  firmer  and  firmer  possession  of  him,  and 
swelling  and  bloating  his  pride  to  a prodigious 
e.xtent.  As  the  boy  begins  to  grow  up,  I shall 
show  him  quite  impatient  for  his  getting  on, 
and  urging  his  masters  to  set  him  great  tasks, 
and  the  like.  But  the  natural  affection  of  the 
boy  will  turn  towards  the  despised  sister ; and  I 
purpose  showing  her  learning  all  sorts  of  things, 
of  her  own  application  and  determination,  to 
assist  him  in  his  lessons : and  helping  him 
always.  When  the  boy  is  about  ten  years  old 
(in  the  fourth  number),  he  will  be  taken  ill,  and 
will  die ; and  when  he  is  ill,  and  when  he  is 
dying,  I mean  to  make  him  turn  always  for 
refuge  to  the  sister  still,  and  keep  the  stern 
affection  of  the  father  at  a distance.  So  Mr. 
Dombey — for  all  his  greatness,  and  for  all  his 
devotion  to  the  child — will  find  himself  at  arms’ 
length  from  him  even  then ; and  will  see  that 
his  love  and  confidence  are  all  bestowed  upon 
his  sister,  whom  Mr.  Dombey  has  used — and  so 
has  the  boy  himself  too,  for  that  matter — as  a 
mere  convenience  and  handle  to  him.  The 
death  of  the  boy  is  a death-blow,  of  course,  to 
all  the  father’s  schemes  and  cherished  hopes ; 
and  ‘ Dombey  and  Son,’  as  Miss  Tox  will  say  at 
the  end  of  the  num.ber,  ‘ is  a Daughter  after  all.’ 
....  From  that  time,  I purpose  changing  his 
feeling  of  indifference  and  uneasiness  towards 
his  daughter  into  a positive  hatred.  For  he  will 
always  remember  how  the  boy  had  his  arm 
round  her  neck  when  he  was  dying,  and  whis- 
pered to  her,  and  would  take  things  only  from 

her  hand,  and  never  thought  of  him At 

the  same  time  I shall  change  her  feeling  towards 
him  for  one  of  a greater  desire  to  love  him,  and 
to  be  loved  by  him  ; engendered  in  her  compas- 
sion for  his  loss,  and  her  love  for  the  dead  boy 
whom,  in  his  way,  he  loved  so  well  too.  So  I 
mean  to  carry  the  story  on,  through  all  the 
branches  and  off-shoots  and  meanderings  that 
come  up  ; and  through  the  decay  and  downfall 
of  the  house,  and  the  bankruptcy  of  Dombey, 
and  all  the  rest  of  it ; when  his  only  staff  and 
treasure,  and  his  unknown  Good  Genius  always, 
will  be  this  rejected  daughter,  who  will  come  out 

better  than  any  son  at  last,  and  whose  love  for 
him,  when  discovered  and  understood,  will  be 
his  bitterest  reproach.  For  the  struggle  with 
himself,  which  goes  on  in  all  such  obstinate  na- 
tures, will  have  ended  then ; and  the  sense  of 
his  injustice,  which  you  may  be  sure  has  never 
quitted  him,  will  have  at  last  a gentler  office 
than  that  of  only  making  him  more  harshly  un- 
just  I rely  very  much  on  Susan  Nipper 

grown  up,  and  acting  partly  as  Florence’s  maid, 
and  partly  as  a kind  of  companion  to  her,  for  a 
strong  character  throughout  the  book.  I also 
rely  on  the  Toodles,  and  on  Polly,  who,  like 
everybody  else,  will  be  found  by  Mr.  Dombey 
to  have  gone  over  to  his  daughter  and  become 
attached  to  her.  This  is  what  cooks  call  ‘ the 
stock  of  the  soup.’  All  kinds  of  things  will  be 
added  to  it,  of  course.”  Admirable  is  the  illus- 
tration thus  afforded  of  his  way  of  working,  and 
interesting  the  evidence  it  gives  of  the  feeling 
for  his  art  with  which  this  book  was  begun. 

The  close  of  the  letter  put  an  important  ques- 
tion affecting  gravely  a leading  person  in  the 

tale “ About  the  boy,  who  appears  in 

the  last  chapter  of  the  first  number,  I think  it 
would  be  a good  thing  to  disappoint  all  the  ex- 
pectations that  chapter  seems  to  raise  of  his 
happy  connection  with  the  story  and  the  heroine, 
and  to  show  him  gradually  and  naturally  trail- 
ing away,  from  that  love  of  adventure  and  boy- 
ish light-heartedness,  into  negligence,  idleness, 
dissipation,  dishonesty,  and  ruin.  To  show,  in 
short,  that  common,  every-day,  miserable  de- 
clension of  which  we  know  so  much  in  our  ordi- 
nary life  ; to  exhibit  something  of  the  philosophy 
of  it,  in  great  temptations  and  an  easy  nature  ; 
and  to  show  how  the  good  turns  into  bad,  by 
degrees.  If  I kept  some  little  notion  of 
Florence  always  at  the  bottom  of  it,  I think  it 
might  be  made  very  powerful  and  very  useful. 
What  do  you  think  ? Do  you  think  it  may  be 
done,  without  making  people  angry  ? I could 
bring  out  Solomon  Gills  and  Captain  Cuttle 
well,  through  such  a history ; and  I descry, 
anyway,  an  opportunity  for  good  scenes  between 
Captain  Cuttle  and  Miss  Tox.  This  question 

of  the  boy  is  very  important Let  me 

hear  all  you  think  about  it.  Hear ! I wish  I 
could.” 

For  reasons  that  need  not  be  dwelt  upon 
here,  but  in  which  Dickens  ultimately  ac- 
quiesced, Walter  was  reserved  for  a happier 
future ; and  the  idea  thrown  out  took  a modi- 
fied shape,  amid  circumstances  better  suited  to 
its  excellent  capabilities,  in  the  striking  charac- 
ter of  Richard  Carstone  in  the  tale  of  Bleak 
House.  But  another  point  had  risen  mean- 

THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


234 


while  for  settlement  not  admitting  of  delay.  In 
the  first  enjoyment  of  writing  after  his  long  rest, 
to  which  a former  letter  has  referred,  he  had 
over-written  his  number  by  nearly  a fifth  : and 
j upon  his  proposal  to  transfer  the  fourth  chapter 
to  his  second  number,  replacing  it  by  another 
of  fewer  pages,  I had  to  object  that  this  might 
damage  his  interest  at  starting.  Thus  he  wrote 
on  the  7 th  of  August have  received 
your  letter  to-day  with  the  greatest  delight,  and 
am  overjoyed  to  find  that  you  think  so  well  of 
the  number.  I thought  well  of  it  myself,  and 
that  it  was  a great  plunge  into  a story;  but  I did 
not  know  how  far  I might  be  stimulated  by  my 

paternal  affection What  should  you  say, 

for  a notion  of  the  illustrations,  to  ‘ Miss  Tox  in- 
troduces the  Party  ? ’ and  ‘ Mr.  Dombey  and 
Family?’  meaning  Polly Toodle,  the  baby,  Mr. 
Dombey,  and  little  Florence ; whom  I think  it 
would  be  well  to  have.  Walter,  his  uncle,  and 
Captain  Cuttle,  might  stand  over.  It  is  a great 
question  with  me,  now,  whether  I had  not  better 
take  this  last  chapter  bodily  out,  and  make  it 
the  last  chapter  of  the  second  number ; writing 
some  other  new  one  to  close  the  first  number. 
I think  it  would  be  impossible  to  take  out  six 
pages  without  great  pangs.  Do  you  think  such 
a proceeding  as  I suggest  would  weaken  num- 
ber one  very  much  ? I wish  you  would  tell  me, 
j as  soon  as  you  can  after  receiving  this,  what 
your  opinion  is  on  the  point.  If  you  thought  it 
' would  weaken  the  first  number,  beyond  the 
counterbalancing  advantage  of  strengthening  the 
I second,  I would  cut  down  somehow  or  other 
I and  let  it  go.  I shall  be  anxious  to  hear  your 
I [ opinion.  In  the  meanwhile  I will  go  on  with 
I ! the  second,  which  I have  just  begun.  I have 
I j not  been  quite  myself  since  we  returned  from 
I Chamounix,  owing  to  the  great  heat.”  Two 
: days  later  ; “ I have  begun  a little  chapter  to  end 

the  first  number,  and  certainly  think  it  will  be 
1 well  to  keep  the  ten  pages  of  Wally  and  Co. 

I entire  for  number  two.  But  this  is  still  subject 
I to  your  opinion,  which  I am  very  anxious  to 
i know.  I have  not  been  in  writing  cue  all  the 
{ week ; but  really  the  weather  has  rendered  it 
next  to  impossible  to  work.”  Four  days  later  ; 
“ I shall  send  you  with  this  (on  the  chance  of 
, your  being  favourable  to  that  view  of  the  sub- 
! ject)  a small  chapter  to  close  the. first  number, 
in  lieu  of  the  Solomon  Gills  one.  I have  been 
hideously  idle  all  the  week,  and  have  done 
nothing  but  this  trifling  interloper  ; but  hope  to 

begin  again  on  Monday — ding  dong The 

inkstand  is  to  be  cleaned  out  to-night,  and  re- 
filled, preparatory  to  execution.  I trust  1 may 
shed  a good  deal  of  ink  in  the  next  fortnight.” 


Then,  the  day  following,  on  arrival  of  my  letter, 
he  submitted  to  a hard  necessity.  “ I received 
yours  to-day.  A decided  facer  to  me ! I had 
been  counting,  alas  ! with  a miser’s  greed,  upon 

the  gained  ten  pages No  matter.  I 

‘have  no  doubt  you  are  right,  and  strength  is 
everything.  The  addition  of  two  lines  to  each 
page,  or  something  less, — coupled  with  the  en- 
closed cuts,  will  bring  it  all  to  bear  smoothly. 
In  case  more  cutting  is  wanted,  I must  ask  you 
to  try  your  hand.  I shall  agree  to  whatever 
you  propose.”  These  cuttings,  absolutely  neces- 
sary as  they  were,  were  not  without  much  dis- 
advantage ; and  in  the  course  of  them  he  had 
to  sacrifice  a passage  foreshadowing  his  final 
intention  as  to  Dombey.  It  would  have  shown, 
thus  early,  something  of  the  struggle  with  itself 
that  such  pride  must  always  go  through ; and  I 
think  it  worth  preserving  in  a note.* 

Several  letters  now  expressed  his  anxiety 
about  the  illustrations.  A nervous  dread  of 
caricature  in  the  face  of  his  merchant-hero,  had 
led  him  to  indicate  by  a living  person  the  type 
of  city-gentleman  he  would  have  had  the  artist 
select  ; and  this  is  all  he  meant  by  his  reiterated 
urgent  request,  “ I do  wish  he  could  get  a glimpse 
of  A,  for  he  is  the  very  Dombey.”  But  as  the 
glimpse  of  A was  not  to  be  had,  it  was  resolved 
to  send  for  selection  by  himself  glimpses  of 
other  letters  of  the  alphabet,  actual  heads  as. 
well  as  fanciful  ones;  and  the  sheetful  I sent 
out,  which  he  returned  when  the  choice  was 
made,  I here  reproduce  in  fac-simile.  In  itself 
amusing,  it  has  now  the  important  use  of  show- 

* “ He  had  already  laid  his  hand  upon  the  bell-rope 
to  convey  his  usual  summons  to  Richards,  when  his  eye 
fell  upon  a writing-desk,  belonging  to  his  deceased  wife, 
which  had  been  taken,  among  other  things,  from  a 
cabinet  in  her  chamber.  It  was  not  the  first  time  that 
his  eye  had  lighted  on  it.  He  carried  the  key  in  his 
pocket ; and  he  brought  it  to  his  table  and  opened  it 
now — having  previously  locked  the  room  door — with  a 
well  accustomed  hand. 

“ From  beneath  a heap  of  torn  and  cancelled  scraps  of 
paper,  he  took  one  letter  that  remained  entire.  Involun- 
tarily holding  his  breath  as  he  opened  this  document,  and 
’bating  in  the  stealthy  action  something  of  his  arrogant 
demeanour,  he  sat  down,  resting  his  hcacl  upon  one  hand, 
and  read  it  through. 

“ He  read  it  slowly  and  attentively,  and  with  a nice 
particularity  to  every  syllable.  Otherwise  than  as  his 
great  deliberation  seemed  unnatural,  and  perhaps  the 
result  of  an  effort  equally  great,  he  allowed  no  sign  ol 
emotion  to  escape  him.  When  he  had  read  it  through, 
he  folded  and  refolded  it  slowly  several  times,  and  tore 
it  carefully  into  fragments.  Checking  his  hand  in  the 
act  of  throwing  these  away,  he  put  them  in  his  jiocket, 
as  if  unwilling  to  trust  them  even  to  the  chances  ol  being 
reunited  and  deciphered;  and  instead  of  linging,  as 
usual,  for  little  Paul,  he  sat  solitary  all  the  evening  in 
his  cheerless  room.” — From  the  original  MS.  of  Dombey 
and  Son. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


235 


ing,  once  for  all,  in  regard  to  Dickens’s  inter- 
course with  his  artists,  that  they  certainly  had 
not  an  easy  time  with  him  ; that,  even  beyond 
what  is  ordinary  between  author  and  illustrator, 


his  requirements  were  exacting;  that  he  was 
apt,  as  he  has  said  himself,  to  build  up  temples 
in  his  mind  not  always  makeable  with  hands ; 
that  in  the  results  he  had  rarely  anything  but 


disappointment ; and  that  of  all  notions  to  con- 
nect with  him  the  most  preposterous  would  be 
that  which  directly  reversed  these  relations,  and 
depicted  him  as  receiving  from  any  artist  the 
inspiration  he  was  always  vainly  striving  to  give. 
An  assertion  of  this  kind  was  contradicted  in 


my  first  volume  but  it  has  since  been  repeated 
so  explicitly,  that  to  prevent  any  possible  mis- 

* Ante,  p.  43.  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  remind  tlie 
reader  that  this  worlr  appeared  originally  in  three 
volumes,  with  an  interval  between  publication  of  each, 
the  first  in  1871,  the  second  in  1872,  and  the  third  in  1873. 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


236 


construction  from  a silence  I would  fain  have 
persisted  in,  the  distasteful  subject  is  again  reluc- 
tantly introduced. 

It  originated  with  a literary  friend  of  the 
excellent  artist  by  whom  Oliver  Twist  was  illus- 


trated from  month  to  month,  during  the  earlier 
part  of  its  monthly  issue.  This  gentleman 
stated,  in  a paper  written  and  published  in 
America,  that  Mr.  Cruikshank,  by  executing  the 
plates  before  opportunity  was  afforded  him  of 


seeing  the  letter-press,  had  suggested  to  the 
writer  the  finest  effects  in  his  story  ; and  to  this, 
opposing  my  clear  recollection  of  all  the  time 
the  tale  was  in  progress,  it  became  my  duty  to 
say  that  within  my  own  personal  knowledge  the 


alleged  fact  was  not  true.  “Dickens,”  the 
artist  is  reported  as  saying  to  liis  admirer, 
“ ferreted  out  that  bundle  of  draw’ings,  and  w lien 
he  came  to  the  one  wliich  represents  Fagin  in 
the  cell,  he  silently  studied  it  for  half  an  hour. 


DOMBEY  AND  SON. 


237 


and  told  me  he  was  tempted  to  change  the 

whole  plot  of  his  story I consented  to 

let  him  write  up  to  my  designs ; and  that  was 
the  way  in  which  Fagin,  Sikes,  and  Nancy  were 
created.”  Happily  I was  able  to  add  the  com- 
plete refutation  of  this  folly  by  producing  a 
letter  of  Dickens  written  at  the  time,  which 
proved  incontestably  that  the  closing  illustra- 
tions, including  the  two  specially  named  in  sup- 
port of  the  preposterous  charge,  Sikes  and  his 
Dog,  and  Fagin  in  his  Cell,  had  not  even  been 
seen  by  Dickens  until  his  finished  book  was  on 
the  eve  of  appearance.  As  however  the  dis- 
tinguished artist,  notwithstanding  the  refresh- 


ment of  his  memory  by  this  letter,  has  permitted 
himself  again  to  endorse  the  statement  of  his 
friend,  I can  only  again  print  the  words  with 
which  Dickens  himself  repels  the  imputation  on 
his  memory.  To  some  it  may  be  more  satis- 
factory if  I print  the  letter  in  fac-simile  ; and  so 
leave  for  ever  a charge  in  itself  so  incredible 
that  nothing  would  have  justified  farther  allu- 
sion to  it  but  the  knowledge  of  my  friend’s  old 
and  true  regard  for  Mr.  Cruikshank,  of  w’hich 
evidence  will  shortly  appear,  and  my  own  re- 
spect for  an  original  genius  well  able  to  subsist 
of  itself  without  taking  what  belongs  to  others. 

Resuming  the  Dombey  letters  I find  him  on 


^ 

MiJuV  tr  Ihnr^ 

7 JctciT 

CcyiiJ?  ch'C\/Y'i 

Vd/ti  IC, 

C{/n\.  pcAx/ic  /w'cC' 


238 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICICENS. 


^ _ -^  Xi5-"  r'St'^>^!TZ/l/*^ 

!T  fcU  L^'  / /IL 

y^  ^ Ci^u  4HiL  c-^Lu^ 

^ Lci^  tf-iy  0^0  Lml,  Eo 


the  30th  of  August  in  better  heart  about  his 
illustrator.  “ I shall  gladly  acquiesce  in  what- 
ever more  changes  or  omissions  you  propose. 

Browne  seems  to  be  getting  on  well He 

will  have  a good  subject  in  Paul’s  christening. 
Mr.  Chick  is  like  D,  if  you’ll  mention  that 
when  you  think  of  it.  The  little  chapter  of 
Miss  Tox  and  the  Major,  which  you,  alas  ! (but 
quite  wisely)  rejected  from  the  first  number,  I 
have  altered  for  the  last  of  the  second.  1 have 
not  quite  finished  the  middle  chapter  yet — 
having,  I should  say,  three  good  days’  work  to 
do  at  it ; but  I hope  it  will  be  all  a worthy  suc- 
cessor to  number  one.  I will  send  it  as  soon 
as  finished.”  Then,  a little  later : “ Browne  is 
certainly  interesting  himself,  and  taking  pains. 
I think  the  cover  very  good  : perhaps  with  a 
little  too  much  in  it,  but  that  is  an  ungrateful 
objection.”  The  second  week  of  September 
brought  me  the  finished  MS.  of  number  two ; 
and  his  letter  of  the  3rd  of  October,  noticing 
objections  taken  to  it,  gives  additional  touches  to 
this  picture  of  him  while  at  work.  The  matter  on 
which  he  is  engaged  is  one  of  his  masterpieces. 
There  is  nothing  in  all  his  writings  more  per- 
fect, for  what  it  shows  of  his  best  (jualities,  than 
the  life  and  death  of  Paul  Dombey.  The 


comedy  is  admirable  ; nothing  strained,  every- 
thing hearty  and  wholesome  in  the  laughter  and 
fun ; all  who  contribute  to  the  mirth.  Doctor 
Blimber  and  his  pupils,  Mr.  Toots,  the  Chicks 
and  the  Toodles,  Miss  Tox  and  the  Major, 
Paul  and  Mrs.  Pipchin,  up  to  his  highest  mark ; 
and  the  serious  scenes  never  falling  short  of  it, 
from  the  death  of  Paul’s  mother  in  the  first 
number,  to  that  of  Paul  himself  in  the  fifth, 
which,  as  the  author  of  the  Two  Old  Men's  Tales 
with  hardly  exaggeration  said,  threw  a whole 
nation  into  mourning.  But  see  how  eagerly 
this  fine  writer  takes  every  suggestion,  how  little 
of  self-esteem  and  self-sufficiency  there  is,  with 
what  a consciousness  of  the  tendency  of  his 
humour  to  exuberance  he  surrenders  what  is 
needful  to  restrain  it,  and  of  what  small  account 
to  him  is  any  special  piece  of  work  in  his  care 
and  his  considerateness  for  the  general  design. 
I think  of  Ben  Jonson’s  experience  of  the  great- 
est of  all  writers.  “ He  was  indeed  honest,  and 
of  an  open  and  free  nature  ; had  an  excellent 
phantasy,  brave  notions  and  gentle  expressions ; 
wherein  he  flowed  with  that  fiicility,  that  some- 
times it  was  necessary  he  should  be  stopj^cd.” 
Who  it  was  that  stopped  him,  and  the  ease  of 
doing  it,  no  one  will  doubt.  Whether  he,  as 


DOMBE  y AND^  SON.  239 


well  as  the  writer  of  later  times,  might  not  with 
more  advantage  have  been  left  alone,  is  the  only 
question. 

Thus  ran  the  letter  of  the  3rd  of  October : 
“Miss  Tox’s  colony  I will  smash.  Walter’s 
allusion  to  Carker  (would  you  take  it  all  out?) 
shall  be  dele’d.  Of  course  you  understand  the 
man  ? I turned  that  speech  over  in  my  mind ; 
but  I thought  it  natural  that  a boy  should  run 
on,  with  such  a subject,  under  the  circum- 
stances : having  the  matter  so  presented  to  him. 
....  I thought  of  the  possibility  of  malice  on 
christening  points  of  faith,  and  put  the  drag  on 
as  I wrote.  Where  would  you  make  the  inser- 
tion, and  to  what  effect  ? That  shall  be  done 
too.  I want  you  to  think  the  number  suffi- 
ciently good  stoutly  to  back  up  the  first.  It 
occurs  to  me — might  not  your  doubt  about  the 
christening  be  a reason  for  not  making  the  cere- 
mony the  subject  of  an  illustration?  Just  turn 
this  over.  Again : if  I could  do  it  (I  shall  have 
leisure  to  consider  the  possibility  before  I begin), 
do  you  think  it  would  be  advisable  to  make 
number  three  a kind  of  halfway  house  between 
Paul’s  infancy,  and  his  being  eight  or  nine  years 
old  ? — In  that  case  I should  probably  not  kill  him 
until  the  fifth  number.  Do  you  think  the  people 
so  likely  to  be  pleased  with  Florence,  and  Walter, 
as  to  relish  another  number  of  them  at  their 
present  age  ? Otherwise,  Walter  will  be  two  or 
three  and  twenty,  straightway.  I wish  you  would 

think  of  this I am  sure  you  are  right 

about  the  christening.  It  shall  be  artfully  and 
easily  amended Eh?” 

Meanwhile,  two  days  before  this  letter,  his 
first  number  had  been  launched  with  a sale 
that  transcended  his  hopes,  and  brought  back 
Nickleby  days.  “The Dombey  sale  is  brilliant  ! ” 
he  wrote  to  me  on  the  i ith.  “ I had  put  before 
me  thirty  thousand  as  the  limit  of  the  most  ex- 
treme success,  saying  that  if  we  should  reach 
that,  I should  be  more  than  satisfied  and  more 
than  happy;  you  will  judge  how  happy  I am! 
I read  the  second  number  here  last  night  to  the 
most  prodigious  and  uproarious  delight  of  the 
circle.  I never  saw  or  heard  people  laugh  so. 
You  will  allow  me  to  observe  that  my  reading 
of  the  Major  has  merit.”  What  a valley  of  the 
shadow  he  had  just  been  passing,  in  his  journey 
through  his  Christmas  book,  has  before  been 
told  ; but  always,  and  with  only  too  much 
eagerness,  he  sprang  up  under  pressure.  “ A 
week  of  perfect  idleness,”  he  wrote  to  me  on  the 
26th,  “ has  brought  me  round  again — idleness 
so  rusting  and  devouring,  so  complete  and  un- 
broken, that  I am  quite  glad  to  write  the  head- 
ing of  the  first  chapter  of  number  three  to-day. 


I shall  be  slow  at  first,  I fear,  in  consequence  of 
that  change  of  the  plan.  13ut  I allow  myself 
nearly  three  weeks  for  the  number ; designing, 
at  present,  to  start  for  Paris  on  the  16th  of  No- 
vember. Full  particulars  in  future  bills.  Just 
going  to  bed.  I think  I can  make  a good  effect, 
on  the  after  story,  of  the  feeling  created  by  the 
additional  number  before  Paul’s  death.”  .... 
Five  more  days  confirmed  him  in  this  hope. 
“ I am  at  work  at  Dombey  with  good  speed, 
thank  God.  All  well  here.  Country  stupen- 
dously beautiful.  Mountains  covered  with  snow. 
Rich,  crisp  weather.”  There  was  one  draw- 
back. The  second  number  had  gone  out  to 
him,  and  the  illustrations  he  found  to  be  so 
“dreadfully  bad,”  that  they  made  him  “curl 
his  legs  up.”  They  made  him  also  more  than 
usually  anxious  in  regard  to  a special  illustra- 
tion on  which  he  set  much  store  for  the  part  he 
had  in  hand. 

The  first  chapter  of  it  was  sent  me  only  four 
days  later  (nearly  half  the  entire  part,  so  freely 
his  fancy  was  now  flowing  and  overflowing), 
with  intimation  for  the  artist : “The  best  sub- 
ject for  Browne  will  be  at  Mrs.  Pipchin’s ; and 
if  he  liked  to  do  a quiet  odd  thing,  Paul,  Mrs. 
Pipchin,  and  the  Cat,  by  the  fire,  would  be  very 
good  for  the  story.  I earnestly  hope  he  will 
think  it  worth  a little  extra  care.  The  second 
subject,  in  case  he  shouldn’t  take  a second  from 
that  same  chapter,  I will  shortly  describe  as 
soon  as  I have  it  clearly  (to-morrow  or  next 
day),  and  send  it  to  you  by  post.”  The  result 
was  not  satisfactory ; but  as  the  artist  more 
than  redeemed  it  in  the  later  course  of  the  tale, 
and  the  present  disappointment  was  mainly  the 
incentive  to  that  better  success,  the  mention  of 
the  failure  here  will  be  excused  for  what  it  illus- 
trates of  Dickens  himself.  “ I am  really  distressed 
by  the  illustration  of  Mrs.  Pipchin  and  Paul.  It 
is  so  frightfully  and  wildly  wide  of  the  mark. 
Good  Heaven  ! in  the  commonest  and  most 
literal  construction  of  the  text,  it  is  all  wrong. 
She  is  described  as  an  old  lady,  and  Paul’s 
‘ miniature  arm-chair  ’ is  mentioned  more  than 
once.  He  ought  to  be  sitting  in  a little  arm- 
chair down  in  a corner  of  the  fire-place,  staring 
up  at  her.  I can’t  say  what  pain  and  vexation 
it  is  to  be  so  utterly  misrepresented.  I would 
cheerfully  have  given  a hundred  pounds  to  have 
kept  this  illustration  out  of  the  book.  He  never 
could  have  got  that  idea  of  Mrs.  Pipchin  if  he 
had  attended  to  the  text.  Indeed  I think  he 
does  better  without  the  text ; for  then  the 
notion  is  made  easy  to  him  in  short  description, 
and  he  can’t  help  taking  it  in.” 

He  felt  the  disappointment  more  keenly,  be- 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DLCKENS. 


240 


cause  the  conception  of  the  grim  old  boarding- 
house keeper  had  taken  back  his  thoughts  to 
the  miseries  of  his  own  child-life,  and  made  her, 
as  her  prototype  in  verity  was,  a part  of  the  ter- 
rible reality.  I had  forgotten,  until  I had  again 
read  this  letter,  that  he  thus  early  proposed  to 
tell  me  that  story  of  his  boyish  sufferings  which 
a question  from  myself,  of  some  months  later 
date,  so  fully  elicited.  He  was  now  hastening 
on  with  the  close  of  his  third  number,  to  be 
ready  for  departure  to  Paris  (4th  of  November). 
“ ....  I hope  to  finish  the  number  by  next 
Tuesday  or  Wednesday.  It  is  hard  writing 
under  these  bird-of-passage  circumstances,  but  I 
have  no  reason  to  complain,  God  knows,  having 

come  to  no  knot  yet I hope  you  will 

like  Mrs.  Pipchin’s  establishment.  It  is  from 
the  life,  and  I was  there — I don’t  suppose  I was 
eight  years  old ; but  I remember  it  all  as  well, 
and  certainly  understood  it  as  well,  as  I do  now. 
AVe  should  be  devilish  sharp  in  what  we  do  to 
children.  I thought  of  that  passage  in  my  small 
life,  at  Geneva.  Shall  I leave  you  my  life  in 
MS.  when  I die  ? There  are  some  things  in  it 
that  would  touch  you  very  much,  and  that  might 
go  on  the  same  shelf  with  the  first  volume  of 
Holcroft’s.” 

On  the  Monday  week  after  that  was  written 
he  left  Lausanne  for  Paris,  and  my  first  letter 
to  him  there  was  to  say  that  he  had  overwritten 
his  number  by  three  pages.  “ I have  taken  out 
about  two  pages  and  a half,”  he  wrote  by  return 
from  the  hotel  Brighton,  “ and  the  rest  I must 
ask  you  to  take  out  with  the  assurance  that  you 
will  satisfy  me  in  whatever  you  do.  The  sale, 
prodigious  indeed  ! I am  very  thankful.”  Next 
day  he  wrote  as  to  Walter.  “ I see  it  will  be  best 
as  you  advise  to  give  that  idea  up  ; and  indeed 
I don’t  feel  it  would  be  reasonable  to  carry  it 
out  now.  I am  far  from  sure  it  could  be 
wholesomely  done,  after  the  interest  he  has 
acquired.  But  when  I have  disposed  of  Paul 
(poor  boy  !)  I will  consider  the  subject  farther.” 
The  subject  was  never  resumed.  He  was  at  the 
opening  of  his  admirable  fourth  part,  when,  on 
the  6th  of  December,  he  wrote  from  the  Rue  de 
Courcelles : “ Here  am  I,  writing  letters,  and 
delivering  opinions,  politico-economical  and 
otherwise,  as  if  there  were  no  undone  number, 
and  no  undone  Dick  ! Well.  Cosi  va  il  mondo 
(God  bless  me!  Italian  ! I beg  your  pardon) 
— and  one  must  keep  one’s  spirits  up,  if  pos- 
sible, even  under  Dombey  pressure.  Paul,  I 
shall  slaughter  at  the  end  of  number  five.  His 
school  ought  to  be  pretty  good,  but  1 haven’t 
been  able  to  dash  at  it  freely,  yet.  However,  I 
have  avoided  unnecessary  dialogue  so  far,  to 


avoid  overwriting ! and  all  I have  written  is 
point.” 

And  so,  in  “point,”  it  went  to  the  close  ; the 
rich  humour  of  its  picture  of  Doctor  Blimber  and 
his  pupils,  alternating  with  the  quaint  pathos  of 
its  picture  of  little  Paul ; the  first  a good-natured 
exposure  of  the  forcing-system  and  its  fruits,  as 
useful  as  the  sterner  revelation  in  Nickicby  of  the 
atrocities  of  Mr.  Squeers,  and  the  last  even  less 
attractive  for  the  sweet  sadness  of  its  foreshadow- 
ing of  a child’s  death,  than  for  those  images  of  a 
vague,  strange  thoughtfulness,  of  a shrewd  un- 
conscious intellect,  of  mysterious  small  philo- 
sophies and  questionings,  by  which  the  young 
old-fashioned  little  creature  has  a glamour  thrown 
over  him  as  he  is  passing  away.  It  was  wonder- 
fully original,  this  treatment  of  the  part  that  thus 
preceded  the  close  of  Paul’s  little  life  ; and  of 
which  the  first  conception,  as  I have  shown,  was 
an  after-thought.  It  took  the  death  itself  out  of 
the  region  ot  pathetic  commonplaces,  and  gave 
it  the  proper  relation  to  the  sorrow  of  the  little 
sister  that  survives  it.  It  is  a fairy  vision  to  a 
piece  of  actual  suffering  ; a sorrow  with  heaven’s 
hues  upon  it,  to  a sorrow  with  all  the  bitterness 
of  earth. 

The  number  had  been  finished,  he  had  made 
his  visit  to  London,  and  was  again  in  the  Rue 
de  Courcelles,  when  on  Christmas  day  he  sent 
me  its  hearty  old  wishes,  and  a letter  of  Jeffrey’s 
on  his  new  story  of  which  the  first  and  second 
part  had  reached  him.  “ Many  merry  Christ- 
mases, many  happy  new  years,  unbroken  friend- 
ship, great  accumulation  of  cheerful  recollections, 
affection  on  earth,  and  Heaven  at  last ! . . . . 
Is  it  not  a strange  example  of  the  hazard  of 
writing  in  parts,  that  a man  like  Jeffrey  should 
form  his  notion  of  Dombey  and  Miss  Tox  on 
three  months’  knowledge?  I have  asked  him 
the  same  question,  and  advised  him  to  keep 
his  eye  on  both  of  them  as  time  rolls  on.  I do 
not  at  heart,  however,  lay  much  real  stress  on 
his  opinion,  though  one  is  naturally  proud  of 
awakening  such  sincere  interest  in  the  breast  of 
an  old  man  who  has  so  long  worn  the  blue  and 

yellow He  certainly  did  some  service  in 

his  old  criticisms,  especially  to  Crabbe.  And 
though  I don’t  think  so  highly  of  Crabbe  as  I 
once  did  (feeling  a dreary  want  of  fancy  in  his 
poems),  I think  he  deserved  the  painstaking  and 
conscientious  tracking  with  which  Jeffrey  fol- 
lowed him.”  ....  Six  days  later  he  described 
himself  sitting  down  to  the  performance  of  one 
of  his  greatest  achievements,  his  number  five, 
“ most  abominably  dull  and  stu]fid.  I have  only 
written  a slijr,  but  I hope  to  get  to  work  in  strong 
earnest  to-morrow.  It  occurred  to  me  on  special 


DOMBEY 


reflection,  that  the  first  chapter  should  be  with 
Paul  and  Florence,  and  that  it  should  leave  a 
l)leasant  impression  of  the  little  fellow  being 
happy,  before  the  reader  is  called  upon  to  see 
him  die.  I mean  to  have  a genteel  breaking- 
up  at  Doctor  Blimber’s  therefore,  for  the  Mid- 
summer vacation ; and  to  show  him  in  a little 
quiet  light  (now  dawning  through  the  chinks  of 
my  mind),  which  I hope  will  create  an  agreeable 
impression.”  Then,  two  days  later ; “.  . . . I 
am  working  very  slowly.  You  will  see  in  the 
first  two  or  three  lines  of  the  enclosed  first  sub- 
ject, with  what  idea  I am  ploughing  along.  It  is 
difficult ; but  a new  way  of  doing  it,  it  strikes 
me,  and  likely  to  be  pretty.” 

And  then,  after  three  days  more,  came  some- 
thing of  a damper  to  his  spirits,  as  he  thus  toiled 
along.  He  saw  public  allusion  made  to  a review 
that  had  appeared  in  the  Times  of  his  Christmas 
book,  and  it  momentarily  touched  what  he  too 
truly  called  his  morbid  susceptibility  to  exaspera- 
tion. “ I see  that  the  ‘ good  old  Times  ’ are 
again  at  issue  with  the  inimitable  B.  Another 
touch  of  a blunt  razor  on  B.’s  nervous  system. 

• — -Friday  morning.  Inimitable  very  mouldy  and 
dull.  Hardly  able  to  work.  Dreamed  of  Timeses 
all  night.  Disposed  to  go  to  New  Zealand  and 
start  a magazine.”  But  soon  he  sprang  up,  as 
usual,  more  erect  for  the  moment’s  pressure ; 
and  after  not  many  days  I heard  that  the  number 
was  as  good  as  done.  His  letter  was  very  brief, 
and  told  me  that  he  had  worked  so  hard  the  day 
before  (Tuesday,  12th  of  January),  and  so  inces- 
santly, night  as  well  as  morning,  that  he  had 
breakfasted  and  lain  in  bed  till  midday.  “ I 
hope  I have  been  very  successful.”  There  was 
but  one  small  chapter  more  to  write,  in  which 
he  and  his  little  friend  were  to  part  company  for 
ever;  and  the  greater  part  of  the  night  of  the 
day  on  which  it  was  written,  Thursday,  the  14th, 
he  was  wandering  desolate  and  sad  about  the 
streets  of  Paris.  I arrived  there  the  following 
morning  on  my  visit ; and  as  I alighted  from 
the  malle-poste,  a little  before  eight  o’clock,  I 
found  him  waiting  for  me  at  the  gate  of  the  post- 
office  bureau. 

I left  him  on  the  2nd  of  February,  with  his 
writing-table  in  readiness  for  number  six;  but 
on  the  4th,  enclosing  me  subjects  for  illustra- 
tion, he  told  me  he  was  “ not  under  weigh  yet. 
Can’t  begin.”  Then,  on  the  7th,  his  birthday, 
he  wTote  to  me  he  should  be  late.  “ Could  not 
begin  before  Thursday  last,  and  find  it  very 
difficult  indeed  to  fall  into  the  new  vein  of  the 
story.  I see  no  hope  of  finishing  before  the 
1 6th  at  the  earliest,  in  which  case  the  steam  will 
have  to  be  put  on  for  this  short  month.  But  it 


JJVT>  SON.  241 


can’t  be  helped.  Perhaps  I shall  get  a rush  of 

inspiration I will  send  the  chapters  as  I 

write  them,  and  you  must  not  wait,  of  course, 
for  me  to  read  the  end  in  type.  To  transfer  to 
Florence,  instantly,  all  the  previous  interest,  is 
what  I am  aiming  at.  For  that,  all  sorts  of 
other  points  must  be  thrown  aside  in  this  number. 
....  We  are  going  to  dine  again  at  the  Em- 
bassy to-day — with  a very  ill  will  on  my  part. 
All  well.  I hope  when  I write  next  I shall 

report  myself  in  better  cue I have  had 

a tremendous  outpouring  from  Jeffrey  about  the 
last  part,  which  he  thinks  the  best  thing  past, 
present,  or  to  come.”  Three  more  days  and  I 
had  the  MS.  of  the  completed  chapter,  nearly 
half  the  number  (in  which  as  printed  it  stands 
second,  the  small  middle  chapter  having  been 
transposed  to  its  place).  “ I have  taken  the 
most  prodigious  pains  with  it ; the  difficulty, 
after  Paul’s  death  being  very  great.  May  you 
like  it ! My  head  aches  over  it  now  (I  write  at 
one  o’clock  in  the  morning),  and  I am  strange 

to  it I think  I shall  manage  Dombey’s 

second  wife  (introduced  by  the  Major),  and  the 
beginning  of  that  business  in  his  present  state 

of  mind,  very  naturally  and  well Paul’s 

death  has  amazed  Paris.  All  sorts  of  people  are 

open-mouthed  with  admiration When  I 

have  done.  I’ll  write  you  sue/i  a letter  ! Don’t 
cut  me  short  in  your  letters  just  now,  because 

I’m  working  hard /’ll  make  up 

Snow — snow — snow — a foot  thick.”  The  day 
after  this,  came  the  brief  chapter  which  was 
printed  as  the  first:  and  then,  on  the  i6th, 
which  he  had  fixed  as  his  limit  for  completion, 
the  close  reached  me ; but  I had  meanwhile 
sent  him  out  so  much  of  the  proof  as  convinced 
him  that  he  had  underw'ritten  his  number  by  at 
least  two  pages,  and  determined  him  to  come  to 
London.  The  incident  has  been  told  which 
soon  after  closed  his  residence  abroad,  and  what 
remained  of  his  story  was  written  in  England. 

I shall  not  farther  dwell  upon  it  in  any  detail. 
It  extended  over  the  whole  of  the  year ; and  the 
interest  and  passion  of  it,  when  both  became 
centred  in  Florence  and  Edith  Dombey,  took 
stronger  hold  of  him  than  any  of  his  previous 
writings,  excepting  only  the  close  of  the  Old- 
Curiosity  Shop.  Jeffrey  compared  Florence  to 
Little  Nell,  but  the  differences  from  the  outset 
are  very  marked,  and  it  is  rather  in  what  dis- 
unites or  separates  them  that  we  seem  to  find 
the  purpose  in  each.  If  the  one,  amid  such 
strange  and  grotesque  violence  surrounding  her, 
expresses  the  innocent  unconsciousness  of  child- 
hood to  such  rough  ways  of  the  world,  passing 
unscathed  as  Una  to  her  home  beyond  it,  the 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


242 


other  is  this  character  in  action  and  resistance, 
a brave  young  resolute  heart  that  will  net  be 
crushed,  and  neither  sinks  nor  yields,  but  works 
out  her  own  redemption  from  earth’s  roughest 
trials.  Of  Edith  from  the  first  Jeffrey  judged 
more  rightly ; and,  when  the  story  was  nearly 
half  done,  expressed  his  opinion  about  her,  and 
about  the  book  itself,  in  language  that  pleased 
Dickens  for  the  special  reason  that  at  the  time 
this  part  of  the  book  had  seemed  to  many  to 
have  fallen  greatly  short  of  the  splendour  of  its 
opening.  Jeffrey  said  however  quite  truly,  claim- 
ing to  be  heard  with  authority  as  his  “ Critic- 
laureate,”  that  of  all  his  waitings  it  was  perhaps 
the  most  finished  in  diction,  and  that  it  equalled 
the  best  in  the  delicacy  and  fineness  of  its 
touches,  “while  it  rises  to  higher  and  deeper 
passions,  not  resting,  like  most  of  the  former,  in 
sweet  thoughtfulness  and  thrilling  and  attractive 
tenderness,  but  boldly  wielding  all  the  lofty  and 
terrible  elements  of  tragedy,  and  bringing  before 
us  the  appalling  struggles  of  a proud,  scornful, 
and  repentant  spirit.”  Not  that  she  w^as  exactly 
this.  Edith’s  worst  qualities  are  but  the  per- 
version of  what  should  have  been  her  best.  A 
false  education  in  her,  and  a tyrant  passion  in 
her  husband,  make  them  other  than  what  nature 
meant;  and  both  show  how  life  may  run  its  evil 
course  against  the  higher  dispensations. 

As  the  catastrophe  came  in  view,  a nice  point 
in  the  management  of  her  character  and  destiny 
arose.  I quote  from  a letter  of  the  19th  of 
November,  when  he  was  busy  with  his  fourteenth 
part.  “ Of  course  she  hates  Carker  in  the  most 
deadly  degree.  I have  not  elaborated  that,  now, 
because  (as  I was  explaining  to  Browne  the  other 
day)  I have  relied  on  it  very  much  for  the  effect 
of  her  death.  But  I have  no  question  that 
what  you  suggest  will  be  an  improvement.  The 
strongest  place  to  put  it  in,  would  be  the  close 
of  the  chapter  immediately  before  this  last  one. 
I want  to  make  the  two  first  chapters  as  light  as 
I can,  but  I will  try  to  do  it,  solemnly,  in  that 
place.”  Then  came  the  effect  of  this  fourteenth 
number  on  J effrey ; raising  the  question  of  whether 
the  end  might  not  come  by  other  means  than  her 
death,  and  bringing  with  it  a more  bitter  humilia- 
tion for  her  destroyer.  While  engaged  on  the 
fifteenth  (21st  December)  Dickens  thus  wrote  to 
me  ; “ I am  thoroughly  delighted  that  you  like 
what  I sent.  I enclose  designs.  Shadow-plate, 
poor.  But  I think  Mr.  Dombey  admirable.  One 
of  the  prettiest  things  in  the  book  ought  to  be 
at  the  end  of  the  chapter  I am  writing  now.  But 
in  Florence’s  marriage,  and  in  her  subsequent 
return  to  her  father,  I 'see  a brilliant  opportunity. 
. . . . Note  from  Jeffrey  this  morning,who  won’t 


believe  (positively  refuses)  that  Edith  is  Carker’s 
mistress.  What  do  you  think  of  a kind  of  in- 
verted Maid’s  Tragedy,  and  a tremendous  scene 
of  her  undeceiving  Carker,  and  giving  him  to 
know  that  she  never  meant  that  ? ” So  it  was 
done;  and  when  he  sent  me  the  chapter  in 
which  Edith  says  adieu  to  Florence,  I had 
nothing  but  pleasure  to  express.  “ I need  not 
say,”  he  wrote  in  reply,  “ I can’t,  how  delighted 
and  overjoyed  I am  by  what  you  say  and  feel  of 
it.  I propose  to  show'  Dombey  twice  more;  and 
in  the  end,  leave  him  exactly  as  you  describe.” 
The  end  came ; and,  at  the  last  moment  when 
correction  w'as  possible,  this  note  arrived.  “ I 
suddenly  remember  that  I have  forgotten  Dio- 
genes. Will  you  put  him  in  the  last  little 
chapter  ? After  the  w'ord  ‘ favourite  ’ in  refer- 
ence to  Miss  Tox,  you  can  add,  ‘ except  with 
Diogenes,  who  is  growing  old  and  wilful.’  Or, 
on  the  last  page  of  all,  after  ‘ and  ■with  them  two 
children  : boy  and  girl’  (I  quote  from  memory), 
you  might  say  ‘ and  an  old  dog  is  generally  in 
their  company,’  or  to  that  effect.  Just  wdiat  you 
think  best.” 

That  was  on  Saturday  the  2 5th  of  March,  1 848, 
and  may  be  my  last  reference  to  Dombey  until 
the  book,  in  its  place  w'ith  the  rest,  finds  critical 
allusion  when  I close.  But  as  the  confidences 
revealed  in  this  chapter  have  dealt  wholly  with 
the  leading  currents  of  interest,  there  is  yet  room 
for  a word  on  incidental  persons  in  the  story,  of 
whom  I have  seen  other  so-called  confidences 
alleged  which  it  will  be  only  right  to  state  have 
really  no  authority.  And  first  let  me  s;iy  -what 
unquestionable  evidence  these  characters  give  of 
the  unimpaired  freshness,  variety,  and  fitness  of 
Dickens’s  invention  at  this  time.  Glorious  Cap- 
tain Cuttle,  laying  his  head  to  the  wind  and 
fighting  through  everything;  his  friend  Jack 
Bunsby,  with  a head  too  ponderous  to  lay-to, 
and  so  falling  victim  to  the  inveterate  Mac- 
Stinger  ; good  - hearted,  modest,  considerate 
Toots,  w'hose  brains  rapidly  go  as  his  whiskers 
come,  but  who  yet  gets  back  from  contact  with 
the  w'orld,  in  his  shambling  way,  some  fragments 
of  the  sense  pumped  out  of  him  by  the  forcing 
Blimbers;  breathless  Susan  Nipper,  beaming 
Polly  'Poodle,  the  plaintive  Wickam,  and  the 
awful  Pipchin,  each  w'ith  her  duty  in  the  starched 
Dombey  household  so  nicely  api)ointcd  as  to 
seem  born  for  only  that ; simple  thoughtful  old 
Gills  and  his  hearty  young  lad  of  a nephew  ; Mr. 
'Poodle  and  his  children,  with  the  chaiitable 
grinder’s  decline  and  fall ; Miss  'Pox,  obsequious 
liatferer  from  nothing  but  good-nature ; spec- 
tacled and  analytic,  but  not  unkind  Miss  Blim- 
ber ; and  the  good  droning  dull  benevolent 


SEASIDE  HOLIDA  VS. 


243 


Doctor  himself,  withering  even  the  fruits  of  his 
\vell-sj)read  dinner-table  with  his  It  is  remarkable, 
Mr.  Feeder,  that  the  Romans — “at  the  mention 
of  which  terrible  people,  their  implacable  ene- 
mies, every  young  gentleman  fastened  his  gaze 
upon  the  Doctor,  with  an  assumption  of  the 
deepest  interest.”  So  vivid  and  life-like  were 
all  these  people,  to  the  very  youngest  of  the 
young  gentlemen,  that  it  became  natural  eagerly 
to  seek  out  lor  them  actual  prototypes ; but  I 
think  I can  say  with  some  confidence  of  them 
all,  that,  whatever  single  traits  may  have  been 
taken  from  persons  known  to  him  (a  practice 
with  all  writers,  and  very  specially  with  Dickens), 
only  two  had  living  originals.  His  own  experi- 
ence of  Mrs.  Pipchin  has  been  related ; 1 had 
myself  some  knowledge  of  Miss  Blimber  ; and 
the  Little  Wooden  Midshipman  did  actually 
(perhaps  does  still)  occupy  his  post  of  observa- 
tion in  Leadenhall-street.  The  names  .that  have 
been  connected,  I doubt  not  in  perfect  good 
faith,  with  Sol  Gills,  Perch  the  Messenger,  and 
Captain  Cuttle,  have  certainly  not  more  founda- 
tion than  the  fancy  a courteous  correspondent 
favours  me  with,  that  the  redoubtable  Captain 
must  have  sat  for  his  portrait  to  Charles  Lamb’s 
blustering,  loud-talking,  hook-handed  Mr.  Min- 
gay.  As  to  the  amiable  and  excellent  city- 
merchant  whose  name  has  been  given  to  Mr. 
Dombey  {ajite,  p.  150),  he  might  with  the  same 
amount  of  justice  or  probability  be  suj^posed  to 
have  originated  Coriolanus  or  Timon  of  Athens. 


III. 


SEASIDE  HOLIDAYS. 


1848 — 1851. 

HE  portion  of  Dickens’s  life  over  which 
his  adventures  of  strolling  extended 
was  in  other  respects  not  without  in- 
terest; and  this  chapter  will  deal 
with  some  of  his  seaside  holidays 
before  I pass  to  the  publication  in  1848 
of  the  story  of  The  Hausited  Man,  and  to 
the  establishment  in  1850  of  the  Periodi- 
cal which  had  been  in  his  thoughts  for  half  a 
dozen  years  before,  and  has  had  foreshadowings 
nearly  as  frequent  in  my  pages. 

Among  the  incidents  of  1848  before  the  holi- 
day season  came,  were  the  dethronement  of  Louis 
Philippe,  and  birth  of  the  second  French  republic : 
on  which  I ventured  to  predict  that  a Gore-house 
friend  of  ours,  and  his  friend,  would  in  three 


days  be  on  the  scene  of  action.  The  three  days 
passed,  and  I had  this  letter.  “ Mardi,  Fevrier 
29,  1848.  Mon  Cher.  Vous  etes  homme  de 
la  plus  grande  penetration  ! Ah,  mon  Dieu,  que 
vous  etes  absolument  magnifique ! Vous  pre- 
voyez  presque  toutes  les  choses  qui  vont  arriver  ; 
et  aux  choses  qui  viennent  d’arriver  vous  etes 
merveilleusement  au-fait.  Ah,  cher  enfant,  quelle 
idee  sublime  vous  vous  aviez  a la  tete  quand 
vous  prevites  si  clairement  que  M.  le  Comte 
Alfred  d’Orsay  se  rendrait  au  pays  de  sa  nais- 
sance  ! Quel  magicien  ! Mais — e’est  tout  egal, 
mais — il  n’est  pas  parti.  II  reste  a Gore-house, 
ou,  avant-hier,  il  y avait  un  grand  diner  a tout  le 
monde.  Mais  quel  homme,  quel  ange,  nean- 
moins  ! Mon  Ami,  je  trouve  que  j’aime  tant  la 
Republique,  qu’il  me  faut  renoncer  ma  langue 
et  ecrire  seulement  le  langage  de  la  Republique 
de  France- — langage  des  Dieux  et  des  Anges — 
langage,  en  un  mot,  des  Frangais ! Hier  au 
soir  je  rencontrai  a I’Athenreum  Monsieur  Mack 
Leese,  qui  me  dit  que  MM.  les  Commission- 
naires  des  Beaux  Arts  lui  avaient  ecrit,  par  leur 
secretaire,  un  billet  de  remerciements  a propos 
de  son  tableau  dans  la  Chambre  des  Deputes,  et 
qu’ils  lui  avaient  prie  de  faire  I’autre  tableau  en 
fresque,  dont  on  y a besoin.  Ce  qu’il  a promis. 
Void  des  nouvelles  pour  les  champs  de  Lincoln’s 
Inn  ! Vive  la  gloire  de  France  ! Vive  la  Re- 
publique ! Vive  le  Peuple  ! Plus  de  Royaute  ! 
Plus  de  Bourbons  ! Plus  de  Guizot ! Mort  aux 
traitres  ! Faisons  couler  le  sang  pour  la  liberte, 
la  justice,  la  cause  populaire ! Jusqu’a  cinq 
heures  et  demie,  adieu,  mon  brave  ! Recevez 
I’assurance  de  ma  consideration  distinguee,  et 
croyez-moi,  concitoyen  ! votre  tout  devoue', 
CiTOYEN  Charles  Dickens.”  I proYed  to  be 
not  quite  so  wrong,  nevertheless,  as  my  friend 
supposed. 

Somewhat  earlier  than  usual  this  summer,  on 
the  close  of  the  Shakespeare-house  performances, 
he  tried  Broadstairs  once  more,  having  no  im- 
portant writing  in  hand  : but  in  the  brief  inter- 
val before  leaving  he  saw  a thing  of  celebrity  in 
those  days,  the  Chinese  junk ; and  I had  all  the 
details  in  so  good  a description  that  I could  not 
resist  the  temptation  of  using  some  parts  of  it 
at  the  time.  “ Drive  down  to  the  Blackwall 
railway,”  he  wrote  to  me,  “ and  for  a matter  of 
eighteen-pence  you  are  at  the  Chinese  Empire  in 
no  time.  In  half  a score  of  minutes,  the  tiles 
and  chimney-pots,  backs  of  squalid  houses, 
frowsy  pieces  of  waste  ground,  narrow  courts 
and  streets,  swamps,  ditches,  masts  of  ships, 
gardens  of  duckweed,  and  unwholesome  little 
bowers  of  scarlet  beans,  whirl  away  in  a flying 
dream,  and  nothing  is  left  but  China.  How  the 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


flowery  region  ever  came  into  this  latitude  and 
longitude  is  the  first  thing  one  asks ; and  it  is 
not  certainly  the  least  of  the  marvel.  As  Alad- 
din’s palace  was  transported  hither  and  thither 
by  the  rubbing  of  a lamp,  so  the  crew  of  China- 
men aboard  the  Keying  devoutly  believed  that 
their  good  ship  would  turn  up,  quite  safe,  at  the 
desired  port,  if  they  only  tied  red  rags  enough 
upon  the  mast,  rudder,  and  cable.  Somehow 
they  did  not  succeed.  Perhaps  they  ran  short 
of  rag ; at  any  rate  they  hadn’t  enough  on  board 
to  keep  them  above  water ; and  to  the  bottom 
they  would  undoubtedly  have  gone  but  for  the 
skill  and  coolness  of  a dozen  English  sailors, 
who  brought  them  over  the  ocean  in  safety. 
Well,  if  there  be  any  one  thing  in  the  world  that 
this  extraordinary  craft  is  not  at  all  like,  that 
thing  is  a ship  of  any  kind.  So  narrow,  so  long, 
so  grotesque ; so  low  in  the  middle,  so  high  at 
each  end,  like  a China  pen-tray ; with  no  rig- 
ging, with  nowhere  to  go  to  aloft ; with  mats  for 
sails,  great  warped  cigars  for  masts,  gaudy  dra- 
gons and  sea- monsters  disporting  themselves 
from  stem  to  stern,  and  on  the  stern  a gigantic 
cock  of  impossible  aspect,  defying  the  world  (as 
well  he  may)  to  produce  his  equal, — it  would 
look  more  at  home  at  the  top  of  a public  build- 
ing, or  at  the  top  of  a mountain,  or  in  an  avenue 
of  trees,  or  down  in  a mine,  than  afloat  on  the 
water.  As  for  the  Chinese  lounging  on  the 
deck,  the  most  extravagant  imagination  would 
never  dare  to  suppose  them  to  be  mariners. 
Imagine  a ship’s  crew,  without  a profile  among 
them,  in  gauze  pinafores  and  plaited  hair ; wear- 
ing stiff  clogs  a quarter  of  a foot  thick  in  the 
sole;  and  lying  at  night  in  little  scented  boxes, 
like  backgammon  men  or  chess-pieces,  or  mo- 
ther-of-pearl counters  ! But  by  Jove  ! even  this 
is  nothing  to  your  surprise  when  you  go  down 
into  the  cabin.  There  you  get  into  a torture  of 
perplexity.  As,  what  became  of  all  those  lan- 
terns hanging  to  the  roof  when  the  Junk  was  out 
at  sea  ? Whether  they  dangled  tliere,  banging 
and  beating  against  each  other,  like  so  many 
jesters’  baubles?  Whether  the  idol  Chin  Tee, 
of  the  eighteen  arms,  enshrined  in  a celestial 
Punch’s  Show,  in  the  place  of  honour,  ever 
tumbled  out  in  heavy  weather  ? Whether  the 
incense  and  the  joss  stick  still  burnt  before  her, 
with  a faint  perfume  and  a little  thread  of  smoke, 
while  the  mighty  waves  were  roaring  all  around  ? 
Whether  that  preposterous  tissue-paper  umbrella 
in  the  corner  was  always  spread,  as  being  a con- 
venient maritime  instrument  for  walking  about 
the  decks  with  in  a storm  ? Whether  all  the 
cool  and  shiny  little  chairs  and  tables  were  con- 
tinually sliding  about  and  bruising  each  other, 


and  if  not  why  not  ? Whether  anybody  on  the 
voyage  ever  read  those  two  books  printed  in 
characters  like  bird-cages  and  fly-traps  ? Whe- 
ther the  Mandarin  passenger.  He  Sing,  who  had 
never  been  ten  miles  from  home  in  his  life  before, 
lying  sick  on  a bamboo  couch  in  a private  china 
closet  of  his  own  (where  he  is  now  perpetually 
writing  autographs  for  inquisitive  barbarians), 
ever  began  to  doubt  the  potency  of  the  Goddess 
of  the  Sea,  whose  counterfeit  presentment,  like  a 
flowery  monthly  nurse,  occupies  the  sailors’ joss- 
house  in  the  second  gallery  ? Whether  it  is  pos- 
sible that  the  said  Mandarin,  or  the  artist  of  the 
ship,  Sam  Sing,  Esquire,  R.  A.  of  Canton,  can  ever 
go  ashore  without  a walking-staff  of  cinnamon, 
agreeably  to  the  usage  of  their  likenesses  in  Bri- 
tish tea-shops  ? Above  all,  whether  the  hoarse 
old  ocean  could  ever  have  been  seriously  in 
earnest  with  this  floating  toy-shop  ; or  had  merely 
played  with  it  in  lightness  of  spirit — roughly, 
but  meaning  no  harm — as  the  bull  did  with 
another  kind  of  china-shop  on  St.  Patrick’s  day 
in  the  morning.” 

The  reply  made  on  this  brought  back  com- 
ment and  sequel  not  less  amusing.  •'*  Yes,  there 
can  be  no  question  that  this  is  Finality  in  per- 
fection ; and  it  is  a great  advantage  to  have  the 
doctrine  so  beautifully  worked  out,  and  shut  up 
in  a corner  of  a dock  near  a fashionable  white- 
bait  house  for  the  edification  of  man.  Thousands 
of  years  have  passed  away  since  the  first  junk 
was  built  on  this  model,  and  the  last  junk  ever 
launched  was  no  better  for  that  waste  and  desert 
of  time.  The  mimic  eye  painted  on  their  prows 
to  assist  them  in  finding  their  way,  has  opened 
as  wide  and  seen  as  far  as  any  actual  organ  of 
sight  in  all  the  interval  through  the  whole  im- 
mense extent  of  that  strange  country.  It  has 
been  set  in  the  flowery  head  to  as  little  purpose 
for  thousands  of  years.  With  all  their  patient 
and  ingenious  but  never  advancing  art,  and  with 
all  their  rich  and  diligent  agricultural  cultivation, 
not  a new  twist  or  curve  has  been  given  to  a ball 
of  ivory,  and  not  a blade  of  experience  has  been 
grown.  There  is  a genuine  finality  in  that ; and 
when  one  comes  from  behind  the  wooden  screen 
that  encloses  the  curious  sight,  to  look  again  upon 
the  river  and  the  mighty  signs  on  its  banks  of 
life,  enterprise,  and  progress,  the  question  that 
comes  nearest  is  beyond  doubt  a home  one. 
Whether  we  ever  by  any  chance,  in  storms,  trust 
to  red  rags;  or  burn  joss-sticks  before  idols  ; or 
grope  our  way  by  the  help  of  conventional  eyes 
that  have  no  sight  in  them  ; or  sacrifice  sub- 
stantial facts  for  absurd  forms?  The  ignorant 
crew  of  the  Keying  refused  to  enter  on  the  ship’s 
books,  until  ‘ a considerable  amount  of  silvered- 


SEASIDE  HOLIDA  YS. 


paper,  tin-foil,  and  joss-stick’  had  been  laid  in 
by  the  owners  for  the  purposes  of  their  worship. 
And  I wonder  whether  our  seamen,  let  alone  our 
bishops  and  deacons,  ever  stand  out  upon  points 
of  silvered-paper  and  tin-foil  and  joss-sticks.  To 
be  sure  Christianity  is  not  Chin-Teeism,  and  that 
I suppose  is  why  we  never  lose  sight  of  the  end 
in  contemptible  and  insignificant  quarrels  about 
the  means.  There  is  enough  matter  for  reflec- 
tion aboard  the  Keying  at  any  rate  to  last  one’s 
voyage  home  to  England  again.” 

Other  letters  of  the  summer  from  Broadstairs 
will  complete  what  he  wrote  from  the  same  place 
last  year  on  Mr.  Cruikshank’s  efforts  in  the  cause 
of  temperance,  and  will  enable  me  to  say,  what 
I know  he  wished  to  be  remembered  in  his 
story,  that  there  was  no  subject  on  which  through 
his  whole  life  he  felt  more  strongly  than  this. 
No  man  advocated  temperance,  even  as  far  as 
possible  its  legislative  enforcement,  with  greater 
earnestness ; but  he  made  important  reservations. 
Not  thinking  drunkenness  to  be  a vice  inborn, 
or  incident  to  the  poor  more  than  to  other  people, 
he  never  would  agree  that  the  existence  of  a gin- 
shop  was  the  alpha  and  omega  of  it.  Believing 
it  to  be  the  “ national  horror,”  he  also  believed 
that  many  operative  causes  had  to  do  with  having 
made  it  so  ; and  his  objection  to  the  temperance 
agitation  was  that  these  were  left  out  of  account 
altogether.  He  thought  the  gin-shop  not  fairly 
to  be  rendered  the  exclusive  object  of  attack, 
until,  in  connection  with  the  classes  who  mostly 
made  it  their  resort,  the  temptations  that  led  to 
it,  physical  and  moral,  should  have  been  more 
bravely  dealt  with.  Among  the  former  he  counted 
foul  smells,  disgusting  habitations,  bad  work- 
shops, and  workshop-customs,  scarcity  of  light, 
air,  and  water,  in  short  the  absence  of  all  easy 
means  of  decency  and  health ; and  among  the 
latter,  the  mental  weariness  and  languor  so  in- 
duced, the  desire  of  wholesome  relaxation,  the 
craving  for  some  stimulus  and  excitement,  not 
less  needful  than  the  sun  itself  to  lives  so  passed, 
and  last,  and  inclusive  of  all  the  rest,  ignorance, 
and  the  want  of  rational  mental  training  gene- 
rally applied.  This  was  consistently  Dickens’s 
“ platform  ” throughout  the  years  he  was  known 
to  me  ; and  holding  it  to  be  within  the  reach  as 
well  as  the  scope  of  legislation,  which  even  our 
political  magnates  have  been  discovering  lately, 
he  thought  intemperance  to  be  but  the  one  result 
that,  out  of  all  of  those  arising  from  the  absence 
of  legislation,  was  the  most  wretched.  For  him, 
drunkenness  had  a teeming  and  reproachful 
history  anterior  to  the  drunken  stage  ; and  he 
thought  it  the  first  duty  of  the  moralist  bent  upon 
annihilating  the  gin-shop,  to  “ strike  deep  and 
Life  of  Charles  Dickens,  17. 


--I5 


spare  not  ” at  those  previous  remediable  evils. 
Certainly  this  was  not  the  way  of  Mr.  Cruik- 
shank,  any  more  than  it  is  that  of  the  many 
excellent  people  who  take  part  in  temperance 
agitations.  His  former  tale  of  the  Bottle,  as  told 
by  his  admirable  pencil,  was  that  of  a decent 
working  man,  father  of  a boy  and  a girl,  living 
in  comfort  and  good  esteem  until  near  the  middle 
age,  when  happening  unluckily  to  have  a goose 
for  dinner  one  day  in  the  bosom  of  his  thriving 
family,  he  jocularly  sends  out  for  a bottle  of  gin, 
persuades  his  wife,  until  then  a picture  of  neat- 
ness, and  good  housewifery,  to  take  a little  drop 
after  the  stuffing,  and  the  whole  family  from  that 
moment  drink  themselves  to  destruction.  The 
sequel,  of  which  Dickens  now  wrote  to  me, 
traced  the  lives  of  the  boy  and  girl  after  the 
wretched  deaths  of  their  drunken  parents,  through 
gin-shop,  beer-shop,  and  dancing-rooms,  up  to 
their  trial  for  robbery : when  the  boy  is  con- 
victed, dying  aboard  the  hulks  ; and  the  girl, 
desolate  and  mad  after  her  acquittal,  flings  her- 
self from  London-bridge  into  the  night-darkened 
river. 

“ I think,”  said  Dickens,  “ the  power  of  that 
closing  scene  quite  extraordinary.  It  haunts  the 
remembrance  like  an  awful  reality.  It  is  full  of 
passion  and  terror,  and  I doubt  very  much 
whether  any  hand  but  his  could  so  have  rendered 
it.  There  are  other  fine  things  too.  The  death- 
bed scene  on  board  the  hulks  ; the  convict  who 
is  composing  the  face,  and  the  other  who  is 
drawing  the  screen  round  the  bed’s  head  ; seem 
to  me  masterpieces  worthy  of  the  greatest  painter. 
The  reality  of  the  place,  and  the  fidelity  with 
which  every  minute  object  illustrative  of  it  is 
presented,  are  surprising.  I think  myself  no 
bad  judge  of  this  feature,  and  it  is  remarkable 
throughout.  In  the  trial  scene  at  the  Old  Bailey, 
the  eye  may  wander  round  the  Court,  and  ob- 
serve everything  that  is  a part  of  the  place.  The 
very  light  and  atmosphere  are  faithfully  repro- 
duced. So,  in  the  gin-shop  and  the  beer-shop. 
An  inferior  hand  would  indicate  a fragment  of 
the  fact,  and  slur  it  over ; but  here  every  shred 
is  honestly  made  out.  The  m.an  behind  the  bar 
in  the  gin-shop,  is  as  real  as  the  convicts  at  the 
hulks,  or  the  barristers  round  the  table  in  the 
Old  Bailey.  I found  it  quite  curious,  as  I closed 
the  book,  to  recall  the  number  of  faces  I had 
seen  of  individual  identity,  and  to  think  what  a 
chance  they  have  of  living,  as  the  Spanish  friar 
said  to  Wilkie,  when  the  living  have  passed  away. 
But  it  only  makes  more  exasperating  to  me  the 
obstinate  one-sidedness  of  the  thing.  When  a 
man  shows  so  forcibly  the  side  of  the  medal  on 
which  the  people  in  their  faults  and  crimes  are 
425 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


246 

stamped  he  is  the  more  bound  to  help  us  to  a 
glance  at  that  other  side  on  which  the  faults  and 
vices  of  the  governments  placed  over  the  people 

"ViS  ;:?.i:olhStHogar...s  method 

in  such  matters,  and  I am  glad  to  be  able  to 
preserve  a masterly  criticism  of  that  great  English- 
man, by  a writer  who  closely  resembled  him  in 
genius  ; as  another  generation  will  J 

more  apt  than  our  own  to  discover.  Hogarth 
avoided ‘the  Drunkard’s  Progress,  I conceive, 
precisely  because  the  causes  of  drurikenness 
among  the  poor  were  so  numerous  and  widely 
spread,  and  lurked  so  sorrowfully  deep  and  far 
down  in  all  human  misery,  neglect,  and  despair 
that  even  his  pencil  could  not  bring  them  fairly 
and  justly  into  the  light.  It  was  never  his  plan 
to  be  content  with  only  showing  the  effect.  In 
the  death  of  the  miser-father,  his  shoe  new-soled 
with  the  binding  of  his  bible,  before  the  young 
Rake  begins  his  career ; in  the  worldly  fethei , 
listless  daughter,  impoverished  young  lord,  and 
crafty  lawyer,  of  the  first  plate  of  Mamage-a-  a- 
mod^,  in  the  detestable  advances  through  the 
stages  of  Cruelty  ; and  in  the  progress  dowmvard 
of  Thomas  Idle ; you  see  the  effects  indeed,  but 
also  the  causes.  He  was  never  disposed  to  spare 
the  kind  of  drunkenness  that  was  of  _moie  re- 
spectable ’ engenderment,  as  one  sees  in  his  mid- 
mght  modern  conversation,  the  election  plates, 
and  crowds  of  stupid  aldermen  and  other  guzzlers. 
But  after  one  immortal  journey  down  Gin-lane, 
he  turned  away  in  pity  and  sorrow— perhaps  m 
hope  of  better  things,  one  day,  from  better  laws 
and  schools  and  poor  men’s  homes— and  went 
back  no  more.  The  scene  of  Gin-lane,  you 
know,  is  that  just  cleared  away  for  the  extension 
of  Oxford-street,  which  we  were  looking  at  the 
other  day;  and  I think  it  a remarkable  trait  of 
Hogarth’s  picture,  that,  while  it  exhibits  dim  - 
enness  in  the  most  appalling  forms,  it  also  forces 
on  attention  a most  neglected  wretched  neigh- 
bourhood, and  an  unwholesome,  mdecent,_abject 
condition  of  life  that  might  be  put  as  frontispiece 
to  our  sanitary  report  of  a hundred  pars  later 
date.  I have  always  myself  thought  the  pui  ppe 
of  this  fine  piece  to  be  not  adequately  statec 
even  by  Charles  Lamb.  ‘ The  very 
absolutely  reeling’  it  is  true;  but  beside  that 
wonderful  picture  of  what  follows  intoxiption, 
we  have  indication  quite  as  powerful  of  what 
leads  to  it  among  the  neglected  classes.  There 
is  no  evidence  that  any  of  the  ac  ois  in  the 
dreary  scene  have  ever  been  much  be  er 
we  see  them  there.  The  best  pe  pawning  the 
commonest  necessaries,  and  tools  of  their  trades  , 
and  the  worst  are  homeless  vagrants  who  give 


us  no  clue  to  their  having  been  otherwise  in  by- 
gone days.  All  are  living  and  dying  miserably. 
Nobody  is  interfering  for  prevention  or  for  cum, 
in  the  generation  going  out  before  us,  or  the 
generation  coming  in.  The  beadle  is  the  only 
sober  man  in  the  composition  except  the  pawn- 
broker, and  he  is  mightily  indifferent  to  the 
orphan-child  crying  beside  its  parent’s  cofhn. 

The  little  charity-girls  are  not  so  well  taught  or 
looked  after,  but  that  they  can  take  dram- 
drinking already.  The  church  indeed  is  very 
prominent  and  handsome ; but  as,  quite  passive 
in  the  picture,  it  coldly  surveys  these  things  m 
progress  under  shadow  of  its  tower,  I cannot 
but  bethink  me  that  it  Avas  not  until  this  year  of 
grace  1848  that  a Bishop  of  Lonpn  first  came 
out  respecting  something  wrong  m poor  men  s 
social  accommodations,  and  I am  confirmed  in 
my  suspicion  that  Hogarth  had  many  meanings 
which  have  not  grown  obsolete  in  a cepury.  • 
Another  art-criticism  by  Dickeiis  shouW  be 
added.  Upon  a separate  publication  by  Leech 
of  some  drawings  on  stone  called  the  Rising 
Generation,  from  designs  done  for  Mr.  Punch  s 
o-allery,  he  wrote  at  my  request  a little  essay  of 
which  a few  sentences  will  find  appropriate  place 
with  his  letter  on  the  other  great  caricaturist  o 
his  time.  I use  that  word,  as  he  did,  only 
for  want  of  a better.  Dickens  was  of  opinion 
that,  in  this  particular  line  of  illustration,  while 
he  conceded  all  his  fame  to  the  elder  and 
stronger  contemporary,  Mr.  Leech  was  the  veiy 
first  Englishman  who  had  made  Beauty  a part  ot 
his  art;  and  he  held,  that,  by  strilang  out  this 
course,  and  setting  the  successful  example  of 
introducing  always  into  his  mos 
pieces  some  beautiful  faces  or  agreeable  forms 
he  had  done  more  than  any  other  man  of  h s 
veneration  to  refine  a branch  of  art  to  which  Uie 
facilities  of  steam-printing  and  wood-engraving 
were  giving  almost  unrivalled  diffusion  and 
popularity.  His  opinion  of  Leech  in  a Avord 
las  that^he  turned  caricature 
and  would  leave  behind  him  not  a htt  e of  tl 
history  of  his  time  and  its  follies,  sketched  with 

miimtable  to  a collection  of  the  Avorks 

of  RoAvlandson  or  Gihay,  we  shall  find,  m spi  e 
of  the  great  humour  displayed  in  many  of  thei  , 

that  they  are  rendered  wearisome  and  u^ 

sant  bv  a vast  amount  of  personal  ugliness. 
Now  besides  that  it  is  a poor  device  to  lepre- 
Tent  what  is  satirized  as  being  necessanly  ugl) , 
which  is  but  the  resource  of  an  angry  ^iM  o 
jealous  woman,  it  serves  no  Pmpose  but  to  pio 
(lure  a disameeable  result.  Iheie  is  no  leason 
why  tiie  farmer’s  daughter  in  the  old  caricatui  c 


SEASIDE  HOLIDAYS. 


who  is  squalling  at  the  harpsichord  (to  the  in- 
tense delight,  by  the  bye,  of  her  worthy  father, 
whom  it  is  her  duty  to  please)  should  be  squab 
and  hideous.  The  satire  on  the  manner  of  her 
education,  if  there  be  any  in  the  thing  at  all, 
would  be  just  as  good,  if  she  were  pretty.  Mr. 
Leech  would  have  made  her  so.  The  average 
i of  farmers’  daughters  in  England  are  not  impos- 
sible lumps  of  fat.  One  is  quite  as  likely  to  find 
a pretty  girl  in  a farm-house,  as  to  find  an  ugly 
one ; and  we  think,  with  Mr.  Leech,  that  the 
i business  of  this  style  of  art  is  with  the  pretty 
one.  She  is  not  only  a pleasanter  object,  but 
we  have  more  interest  in  her.  We  care  more 
about  what  does  become  her,  and  does  not 
become  her.  Mr.  Leech  represented  the  other 
day  certain  delicate  creatures  with  bewitching 
countenances  encased  in  several  varieties  of  that 
amazing  garment,  the  ladies’  paletot.  Formerly 
those  fair  creatures  would  have  been  made  as 
ugly  and  ungainly  as  possible,  and  then  the 
point  would  have  been  lost.  The  spectator, 
with  a laugh  at  the  absurdity  of  the  whole 
group,  would  not  have  cared  how  such  uncouth 
creatures  disguised  themselves,  or  how  ridi- 
culous diey  became But  to  represent 

female  beauty  as  Mr.  Leech  represents  it,  an 
artist  must  have  a most  delicate  perception  of  it; 
and  the  gift  of  being  able  to  realise  it  to  us  with 
two  or  three  slight,  sure  touches  of  his  pencil. 
This  power  Mr.  Leech  possesses  in  an  extra- 
ordinary degree For  this  reason  we  enter 

our  protest  against  those  of  the  Rising  Genera- 
tion who  are  precociously  in  love  being  made 
the  subject  of  merriment  by  a pitiless  and  un- 
sympathizing world.  We  never  saw  a boy  more 
distinctly  in  the  right  than  the  young  gentleman 
kneeling  on  the  chair  to  beg  a lock  of  hair  from 
his  pretty  cousin,  to  take  back  to  school.  Mad- 
ness is  in  her  apron,  and  Virgil  dog’s-eared  and 
defaced  is  in  her  ringlets.  Doubts  may  suggest 
themselves  of  the  perfect  disinterestedness  of 
the  other  young  gentleman  contemplating  the 
fair  girl  at  the  piano — doubts  engendered  by  his 
worldly  allusion  to  ‘tin;’  though  even  that  may 
have  arisen  in  his  modest  consciousness  of  his 
own  inability  to  support  an  establishment — but 
that  he  should  be  ‘ deucedly  inclined  to  go  and 
cut  that  fellow  out,’  appears  to  us  one  of  the 
most  natural  emotions  of  the  human  breast. 
The  young  gentleman  with  the  dishevelled  hair 
and  clasped  hands  who  loves  the  transcendant 
beauty  with  the  bouquet,  and  can’t  be  happy 
without  her,  is  to  us  a withering  and  desolate 
spectacle.  Who  could  be  happy  without  her? 
The  growing  youths  are  not  less  hap- 
pily observed  and  agreeably  depicted  than  the 


247 


grown  women.  The  languid  little  creature  who 
‘ hasn’t  danced  since  he  was  quite  a boy,’  is 
perfect ; and  the  eagerness  of  the  small  dancer 
whom  he  declines  to  receive  for  a partner  at 
the  hands  of  the  glorious  old  lady  of  the  house 
(the  little  feet  quite  ready  for  the  first  position, 
the  whole  heart  projected  into  the  quadrille,  and 
the  glance  peeping  timidly  at  the  desired  one 
out  of  a flutter  of  hope  and  doubt)  is  quite  de- 
lightful to  look  at.  The  intellectual  juvenile 
who  awakens  the  tremendous  wrath  of  a Norma 
of  private  life  by  considering  woman  an  inferior 
animal,  is  lecturing  at  the  present  moment,  we 
understand,  on  the  Concrete  in  connexion  with 
the  Will.  The  legs  of  the  young  philosopher 
who  considers  Shakespeare  an  over-rated  man, 
were  seen  by  us  dangling  over  the  side  of  an 
omnibus  last  Tuesday.  We  have  no  acquaint- 
ance with  the  scowling  young  gentleman  who  is 
clear  that  ‘ if  his  Governor  don’t  like  the  way  he 
goes  on  in,  why  he  must  have  chambers  and  so 
much  a week ; ’ but  if  he  is  not  by  this  time  in 
Van  Diemen’s-land,  he  will  certainly  go  to  it 
through  Newgate.  We  should  exceedingly  dis- 
like to  have  personal  property  in  a strong  box,  to 
live  in  the  suburb  of  Camberwell,  and  to  be  in  the 

relation  of  bachelor-uncle  to  that  youth 

In  all  his  designs,  whatever  Mr.  Leech  desires 
to  do,  he  does.  His  drawing  seems  to  us  charm- 
ing; and  the  expression  indicated,  though  by 
the  simplest  means,  is  exactly  the  natural  ex- 
pression, and  is  recognised  as  such  immediately. 
Some  forms  of  our  existing  life  will  never  have  a 
better  chronicler.  His  wit  is  good-natured,  and 
always  the  wit  of  a gentleman.  He  has  a 
becoming  sense  of  responsibility  and  self-re- 
straint ; he  delights  in  agreeable  things ; he  im- 
parts some  pleasant  air  of  his  own  to  things  not 
pleasant  in  themselves ; he  is  suggestive  and  full 
of  matter;  and  he  is  always  improving.  Into 
the  tone  as  well  as  into  the  execution  of  what 
he  does,  he  has  brought  a certain  elegance 
which  is  altogether  new,  without  involving  any 
compromise  of  what  is  true.  Popular  art  in 
England  has  not  had  so  rich  an  acquisi- 
tion.” Dickens’s  closing  allusion  was  to  a re- 
mark made  by  Mr.  Ford  in  a review  of  Oliver 
Twist  formerly  referred  to.  “ It  is  eight  or  ten 
years  since  a writer  in  the  Quarterly  Revieiv, 
making  mention  of  Mr.  George  Cruikshank, 
commented  on  the  absurdity  of  excluding  such 
a man  from  the  Royal  Academy,  because  his 
works  were  not  produced  in  certain  materials, 
and  did  not  occupy  a certain  space  in  its  annual 
shows.  Will  no  Associates  be  found  upon  its 
books  one  of  these  days,  the  labours  of  whose 
oil  and  brushes  will  have  sunk  into  the  pro- 


248  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


foundest  obscurity,  when  many  pencil-marks  of 
Mr.  Cruikshank  and  of  Mr.  Leech  will  be  still 
fresh  in  half  the  houses  in  the  land  ?” 

Of  what  otherwise  occupied  him  at  Broad- 
stairs  in  1848  there  is  not  much  to  mention 
until  the  close  of  his  holiday.  He  used  to  say 
that  he  never  went  for  more  than  a couple  of 
days  from  his  own  home  without  something  be- 
falling him  that  never  happened  to  anyone  else, 
and  his  Broadstairs  adventure  of  the  present 
summer  verged  closer  on  tragedy  than  comedy. 
Returning  there  one  day  in  August  after  bringing 
up  his  boys  to  school,  it  had  been  arranged  that 
his  wife  should  meet  him  at  Margate ; but  he  had 
walked  impatiently  far  beyond  the  place  for 
meeting  when  at  last  he  caught  sight  of  her,  not 
in  a small  chaise,  but  in  a large  carriage  and  pair 
followed  by  an  excited  crowd,  and  with  the 
youth  that  should  have  been  driving  the  little 
pony  bruised  and  bandaged  on  the  box  behind 
the  two  prancing  horses.  “ You  may  faintly 
imagine  my  amazement  at  encountering  this 
carriage,  and  the  strange  people,  and  Kate,  and 
the  crowd,  and  the  bandaged  one,  and  all  the 
rest  of  it.”  And  then  in  a line  or  two  I had  the 
story.  “ At  the  top  of  a steep  hill  on  the  road, 
with  a ditch  on  each  side,  the  pony  bolted, 
whereupon  what  does  John  do  but  jump  out ! 
He  says  he  was  thrown  out,  but  it  cannot  be. 
The  reins  immediately  became  entangled  in  the 
wheels,  and  away  went  the  pony  down  the  hill 
madly,  with  Kate  inside  rending  the  Isle  of 
Thanet  with  her  screams.  The  accident  might 
have  been  a fearful  one,  if  the  pony  had  not, 
thank  Heaven,  on  getting  to  the  bottom,  pitched 
over  the  side ; breaking  the  shaft  and  cutting 
her  hind  legs,  but  in  the  most  extraordinary 
manner  smashing  her  own  way  apart.  She 
tumbled  down,  a bundle  of  legs  with  her  head 
tucked  underneath,  and  left  the  chaise  standing 
on  the  bank  ! A Captain  Devaynes  and  his 
wife  were  passing  in  their  carriage  at  the  moment, 
saw  the  accident,  with  no  power  of  preventing 
it,  got  Kate  out,  laid  her  on  the  grass,  and  be- 
haved with  infinite  kindness.  All’s  well  that 
ends  well,  and  I think  she’s  really  none  the 
worse  for  the  fright.  John  is  in  bed  a good 
deal  bruised,  but  without  any  broken  bone,  and 
likely  soon  to  come  right ; though  for  the  pre- 
sent plastered  all  over,  and,  like  Squeers,  a 
brown-paper  parcel  chock-full  of  nothing  but 
groans.  Tlie  women  generally  have  no  sym- 
pathy for  him  whatever,  and  the  nurse  says,  with 
indignation.  How  could  he  go  and  leave  a un- 
protected female  in  the  shay  ! ” 

Holiday  incidents  there  were  many,  but  none 
that  need  detain  us.  This  was  really  a summer 


idleness : for  it  was  the  interval  between  two 
of  his  important  undertakings,  there  was  no 
periodical  yet  to  make  demands  on  him,  and 
only  the  task  of  finishing  his  Haunted  Man  for 
Christmas  lay  ahead.  But  he  did  even  his 
nothings  in  a strenuous  way,  and  on  occasion 
could  make  gallant  fight  against  the  elements 
themselves.  He  reported  himself,  to  my  horror, 
thrice  wet  through  on  a single  day,  “ dressed 
four  times,”  and  finding  all  sorts  of  great  things, 
brought  out  by  the  rains,  among  the  rocks  on 
the  sea-beach.  He  also  sketched  now  and  then 
morsels  of  character  for  me,  of  which  I will  pre- 
serve one.  “ F is  philosophical,  from  sunrise  to 
bedtime : chiefly  in  the  French  line,  about 
French  women  going  mad,  and  in  that  state 
coming  to  their  husbands,  and  saying,  ‘ Mon 
ami,  je  vous  ai  trompe.  Voici  les  lettres  de 
mon  amant ! ’ Whereupon  the  husbands  take 
the  letters  and  think  them  waste  paper,  and 
become  extra-philosophical  at  finding  that  they 
really  were  the  lover’s  effusions : though  what 
there  is  of  philosophy  in  it  all,  or  anything  but 
unwholesomeness,  it  is  not  easy  to  see.”  (A 
remark  that  it  might  not  be  out  of  place  to  offer 
to  Mr.  Taine’s  notice.)  “ Likewise  about  dark 
shades  coming  over  our  wedded  Emmeline’s 
face  at  parties ; and  about  F handing  her  to  her 
carriage,  and  saying,  ‘ May  I come  in,  for  a lift 
homeward?’  and  she  bending  over  him  out  of 
the  window',  and  saying  in  a low  voice,  I dare 
NOT ! And  then  of  the  carriage  driving  aw'ay 
like  lightning,  leaving  F more  philosophical  than 
ever  on  the  pavement.”  Not  till  the  close  of 
September  I heard  of  w'ork  intruding  itself,  in  a 
letter  twitting  me  for  a broken  promise  in  not 
joining  him  : “ We  are  reasonably  jolly,  but 
rurally  so ; going  to  bed  o’  nights  at  ten, 
and  bathing  o’  mornings  at  half-past  seven  ; and 
not  drugging  ourselves  with  those  dirty  and 
spoiled  waters  of  Lethe  that  flow  round  the  base 
of  the  great  pyramid.”  Then,  after  mention  of 
the  friends  who  had  left  him,  Sheriff  Gordon, 
the  Leeches,  Lemon,  Egg  and  Stone  : “ Reflec- 
tion and  pensiveness  are  coming.  1 have  not 

‘ — seen  Fancy  write 
With  a pencil  of  light 

On  the  blotter  so  solid,  commanding  the  sea  ! ’ 
but  I shouldn’t  wonder  if  she  w'ere  to  do  it,  one 
of  these  days.  Dim  visions  of  divers  things  are 
floating  around  me  ; and  I must  go  to  work, 
head  foremost,  when  I get  home.  1 am  glad, 
after  all,  that  I have  not  been  at  it  here,  for  1 
am  all  the  better  for  my  idleness,  no  tloubt. 

. . . . Roche  w'as  very  ill  last  night,  and  looks 
like  one  with  his  face  turned  to  the  other  world, 
this  morning.  When  are  you  coming  ? Oh 


SEASIDE  HOLIDA  VS. 


249 


what  days  and  nights  there  have  been  here,  this 
week  past ! ” My  consent  to  a suggestion  in 
his  next  letter,  that  I should  meet  him  on  his 
way  back,  and  join  him  in  a walking-excursion 
home,  got  me  lull  absolution  for  broken  pro- 
mises ; and  the  way  we  took  will  remind  friends 
of  his  later  life,  when  he  was  lord  of  Gadshill,  of 
an  object  of  interest  which  he  delighted  in 
taking  them  to  see.  “ You  will  come  down 
booked  for  Maidstone  (I  will  meet  you  at  Pad- 
dock-wood),  and  we  will  go  thither  in  company 
over  a most  beautiful  little  line  of  railroad.  The 
eight  miles  walk  from  Maidstone  to  Rochester, 
and  a visit  to  the  Druidical  altar  on  the  wayside, 
are  charming.  This  could  be  accomplished  on 
the  Tuesday;  and  Wednesday  we  might  look 
about  us  at  Chatham,  coming  home  by  Cobham 
on  Thursday ” 

His  first  sea-side  holiday  in  1849  was  at 
Brighton,  where  he  passed  some  weeks  in  Febru- 
ary ; and  not,  I am  bound  to  add,  without  the 
r/;msual  adventure  to  signalise  his  visit.  He 
had  not  been  a week  in  his  lodgings,  where 
Leech  and  his  wife  joined  him,  when  both  his 
landlord  and  the  daughter  of  his  landlord  went 
raving  mad,  and  the  lodgers  were  driven  away 
to  the  Bedford  hotel.  “ If  you  could  have 
heard  the  cursing  and  crying  of  the  two ; could 
have  seen  the  physician  and  nurse  quoited  out 
into  the  passage  by  the  madman  at  the  hazard 
of  their  lives ; could  have  seen  Leech  and  me 
flying  to  the  doctor’s  rescue ; could  have  seen 
our  wives  pulling  us  back ; could  have  seen  the 
M.D.  faint  with  fear;  could  have  seen  three 
other  M.D.’s  come  to  his  aid ; with  an  atmo- 
sphere of  Mrs.  Gamps,  strait-waistcoats,  strug- 
gling friends  and  servants,  surrounding  the 
whole ; you  would  have  said  it  was  quite 
worthy  of  me,  and  quite  in  keeping  with  my 
usual  proceedings.”  The  letter  ended  with  a 
word  on  what  then  his  thoughts  were  full  of,  but 
for  which  no  name  had  yet  been  found.  “ A 
sea-fog  to-day,  but  yesterday  inexpressibly  de- 
licious. My  mind  running,  like  a high  sea,  on 
names — not  satisfied  yet,  though.”  When  he 
next  wrote  from  the  sea-side,  in  the  beginning 
of  July,  he  had  found  the  name ; had  started  his 
book;  and  was  “rushing  to  Broadstairs”  to 
write  the  fourth  number  of  David  Copperfield. 

In  this  came  the  childish  experiences  which 
had  left  so  deep  an  impression  upon  him,  and 
over  which  he  had  some  difficulty  in  throwing 
the  needful  disguises.  “ Fourteen  miles  to-day 
in  the  country,”  he  had  written  to  me  on  the 
2istof  June,  “revolving  number  four!”  Still 
he  did  not  quite  see  his  way.  Three  days 
later  he  wrote  : “ On  leaving  you  last  night,  I 


found  myself  summoned  on  a special  jury  in  the 
Queen’s  Bench  to-day.  I have  taken  no  notice 
of  the  document,  and  hourly  expect  to  be  dragged 
forth  to  a dungeon  for  contempt  of  court.  I 
think  I should  rather  like  it.  It  might  help  me 
with  a new  notion  or  two  in  my  difficulties. 
Meanwhile  I shall  take  a stroll  to-night  in  the 
green  fields  from  seven  to  ten,  if  you  feel  inclined 
to  join.”  His  troubles  ended  when  he  got  to 
Broadstairs,  from  which  he  wrote  on  the  tenth 
of  July  to  tell  me  that  agreeably  to  the  plan  we 
had  discussed  he  had  introduced  a great  part  of 
his  MS.  into  the  number.  “ I really  think  I 
have  done  it  ingeniously,  and  with  a very  com- 
plicated interweaving  of  truth  and  fiction.  Vous 
verrez.  I am  getting  on  like  a house  afire  in 
point  of  health,  and  ditto  ditto  in  point  of 
number.” 

In  the  middle  of  July  the  number  was  nearly 
done,  and  he  was  still  doubtful  where  to  pass 
his  longer  summer  holiday.  Leech  wished  to 
join  him  in  it,  and  both  desired  a change  from 
Broadstairs.  At  first  he  thought  of  Folkestone, 
but  disappointment  there  led  to  a sudden  change. 
“ I propose”  (15th  of  July)  “ returning  to  town 
to-morrow  by  the  boat  from  Ramsgate,  and 
going  off  to  Weymouth  or  the  Isle  of  Wight,  or 
both,  early  the  next  morning.”  A few  days 
after,  his  choice  was  made. 

He  had  taken  a house  at  Bonchurch,  attracted 
there  by  the  friend  who  had  made  it  a place  of 
interest  for  him  during  the  last  few  years,  the 
Rev.  James  White,  with  whose  name  and  its 
associations  my  mind  connects  inseparably  many 
of  Dickens’s  happiest  hours.  To  pay  him  fitting 
tribute  would  not  be  easy,  if  here  it  were  called 
for.  In  the  kindly  shrewd  Scotch  face,  a keen 
sensitiveness  to  pleasure  and  pain  was  the  first 
thing  that  struck  any  common  observer.  Cheer- 
fulness and  gloom  coursed  over  it  so  rapidly 
that  no  one  could  question  the  tale  they  told. 
But  the  relish  of  his  life  had  outlived  its  more 
than  usual  share  of  sorrows  ; and  quaint  sly 
humour,  love  of  jest  and  merriment,  capital 
knowledge  of  books,  and  sagacious  quips  at 
men,  made  his  companionship  delightful.  Like 
his  life,  his  genius  was  made  up  of  alternations 
of  mirth  and  melancholy.  He  would  be  im- 
mersed, at  one  time,  in  those  darkest  Scottish 
annals  from  which  he  drew  his  tragedies  ; and 
overflowing,  at  another,  into  Sir  Frizzle  Pump- 
kin’s exuberant  farce.  The  tragic  histories  may 
probably  perish  with  the  actor’s  perishable  art ; 
but  three  little  abstracts  of  history  written  at  a 
later  time  in  prose,  with  a sunny  clearness  of 
narration  and  a glow  of  picturesque  interest  to 
my  knowledge  unequalled  in  books  of  such 


250 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


small  pretension,  will  find,  I hope,  a lasting 
place  in  literature.  They  are  filled  with  felici- 
ties of  phrase,  with  breadth  of  understanding 
and  judgment,  with  manful  honesty,  quiet  saga- 
city, and  a constant  cheerful  piety,  valuable  for 
all  and  priceless  for  the  young.  Another  word 
I permit  myself  to  add.  With  Dickens,  White 
was  popular  supremely  for  his  eager  good  fel- 
lowship 3 and  few  men  brought  him  more  of 
what  he  always  liked  to  receive.  But  he  brought 
nothing  so  good  as  his  wife.  “ He  is  excellent, 
but  she  is  better,”  is  the  pithy  remark  of  his  first 
Bonchurch  letter  3 and  the  true  affection  and 
respect  that  followed  is  happily  still  borne  her 
by  his  daughters. 

Of  course  there  is  something  strange  to  be 
recorded  of  the  Bonchurch  holiday,  but  it  does 
not  come  till  nearer  the  ending  3 and,  with  more 
attention  to  Mrs.  Malaprop’s  advice  to  begin 
with  a little  aversion,  might  probably  not  have 
come  at  all.  He  began  with  an  excess  of  liking. 
Of  the  Undercliff  he  was  full  of  admiration. 

“ From  the  top  of  the  highest  downs,”  he  wrote 
in  his  second  letter  (28th  of  July)  “there  are 
views  which  are  only  to  be  equalled  on  the 
Genoese  shore  of  the  Mediterranean  3 the  variety 
of  walks  is  extraordinary  3 things  are  cheap,  and 
everybody  is  civil.  The  waterfall  acts  wonder- 
fully, and  the  sea  bathing  is  delicious.  Best  of 
all,  the  place  is  certainly  cold  rather  than  hot,  in 
the  summer  time.  The  evenings  have  been 
even  chilly.  White  very  jovial,  and  emulous  of 
the  inimitable  in  respect  of  gin-punch.  He  had 
made  some  for  our  arrival.  Ha  ! ha  ! not  bad 
for  a beginner.  ....  I have  been,  and  am, 
trying  to  work  this  morning  3 but  I can’t  make 
anything  of  it,  and  am  going  out  to  think.  I am 
invited  by  a distinguished  friend  to  dine  with 
you  on  the  first  of  August,  but  I have  pleaded 
distance  and  the  being  resident  in  a cave  on  the 
sea  shore  3 my  food,  beans  3 my  drink,  the  water 

from  the  rock I must  pluck  up  heart  of 

grace  to  write  to  Jeffrey,  of  whom  I had  but 
poor  accounts  from  Gordon  just  before  leaving. 
Talfourd  delightful,  and  amuses  me  mightily.  _ 
I am  really  cpiite  enraptured  at  his  success,  and 
think  of  his  happiness  with  uncommon  pleasure.” 
Our  friend  was  now  on  the  bench  3 which  he 
adorned  with  qualities  that  are  justly  the  pride 
of  that  profession,  and  with  accomplishments 
which  have  become  more  rare  in  its  highest 
ifiaces  than  they  were  in  former  times.  His 
elevation  only  made  those  virtues  better  known. 
Talfourd  assumed  nothing  with  the  ermine  but 
the  privilege  of  more  frequent  intercourse  with 
the  tastes  and  friends  he  loved,  and  he  conti- 
nued to  be  the  most  joyous  and  least  affected  of 


companions.  Such  small  oddities  or  foibles  as 
he  had  made  him  secretly  only  dearer  to  Dickens, 
who  had  no  friend  he  was  more  attached  to  3 and 
the  many  happy  nights  made  happier  by  the 
voice  so  affluent  in  generous  words,  and  the 
face  so  bright  with  ardent  sensibility,  come  back 
to  me  sorrowfully  now.  “ Deaf  the  prais’d  ear, 
and  mute  the  tuneful  tongue.”  The  poet’s  line 
has  a double  application  and  sadness. 

He  wrote  again  on  the  first  of  August.  “ I 
have  just  begun  to  get  into  work.  We  are  ex- 
pecting the  Queen  to  come  by  very  soon,  in 
grand  array,  and  are  going  to  let  off  ever  so 
many  guns.  I had  a letter  from  Jeffrey  yester- 
day morning,  just  as  I was  going  to  write  to 
him.  He  has  evidently  been  very  ill,  and  I 
begin  to  have  fears  for  his  recovery.  It  is  a very 
pathetic  letter,  as  to  his  state  of  mind  3 but  only 
in  a tranquil  contemplation  of  death,  which  I 
think  very  noble.”  His  next  letter,  four  days  later, 
described  himself  as  still  continuing  at  work  3 but 
also  taking  part  in  dinners  at  Blackgang,  and 
picnics  of  “ tremendous  success  ” on  Shanklin 
Down.  “Two  charity  sermons  for  the  school  are  j 
preached  to-day,  and  I go  to  the  afternoon  one.  j 
The  examination  of  said  school  t’other  day  was 
very  funny.  Ail  the  boys  made  Buckstone’s  bow 
in  the  Rough  Diamond,  and  some  in  a very 
wonderful  manner  recited  pieces  of  poetry,  about 
a clock,  and  may  we  be  like  the  clock,  which  is 
always  a going  and  a doing  of  its  duty,  and  | 
always  tells  the  truth  (supposing  it  to  be  a slap-  1 
up  chronometer  I presume,  for  the  American  1 j 
clock  in  the  school  was  lying  frightfully  at  that  | 
moment)  3 and  after  being  bothered  to  death  by  1 
the  multiplication  table,  they  were  refreshed  with  j i 
a public  tea  in  Lady  Jane  Swinburne’s  garden.”  1 1 
(There  was  a reference  in  one  of  his  letters,  but  | 

I have  lost  it,  to  a golden-haired  lad  of  the  j 
Swinburnes  whom  his  own  boys  used  to  play  ] 
with,  since  become  more  widely  known.)  “The  , , 
rain  came  in  with  the  first  tea-pot,  and  has  been  | j 
active  ever  since.  On  Friday  we  had  a grand,  j j 
and  what  is  better,  a very  good  dinner  at  [ j 
‘ parson  ’ Fielden’s,  with  some  choice  port.  On  | 

Tuesday  we  are  going  to  another  picnic  3 with  | 

the  materials  for  a fire,  at  my  express  stipula-  j 

tion  3 and  a great  iron  pot  to  boil  potatoes  in.  ^ 

These  things,  and  the  eatables,  go  to  the  ground  | j 
in  a cart.  Last  night  we  had  some  very  good  | j 

merriment  at  White’s,  where  pleasant  Julian  | 

Young  and  his  wife  (who  are  staying  about  five  : 

miles  off)  showed  some  droll  new  games  ’’—and  j 

roused  the  ambition  in  my  friend  to  give  a | 

“ mighty  conjuring  irerforinancc  for  all  the  chil-  | 

dren  in  Bonchurch,”  for  which  1 sent  him  the  | 

materials  and  which  went  off  in  a tumult  of  wild  j 


SEASIDE  HOLIDAYS.  251 

delight.  To  the  familiar  names  in  this  letter  I 
will  add  one  more,  grieving  freshly  even  now  to 
connect  it  with  sufi'ering.  “ A letter  from  Poole 
has  reached  me  since  I began  this  letter,  with 
tidings  in  it  that  you  will  be  sorry  to  hear.  Poor 
Regnier  has  lost  his  only  child ; the  pretty 
daughter  who  dined  with  us  that  nice  day  at 
your  house,  when  we  all  pleased  the  poor 
mother  by  admiring  her  so  much.  She  died  of 
a sudden  attack  of  malignant  typhus.  Poole 
was  at  the  funeral,  and  writes  that  he  never  saw, 
or  could  have  imagined,  such  intensity  of  grief 
as  Regnier’s  at  the  grave.  How  one  loves  him 
for  it.  But  is  it  not  always  true,  in  comedy  and 
in  tragedy,  that  the  more  real  the  man  the  more 
genuine  the  actor  ? ” 

After  a few  more  days  I heard  of  progress 
with  his  writing  in  spite  of  all  festivities.  “ I 
have  made  it  a rule  that  the  inimitable  is  in- 
visible, until  two  every  day.  I shall  have  half 
the  number  done,  please  God,  to-morrow.  I 
have  not  worked  quickly  here  yet,  but  I don’t 
know  what  I may  do.  Divers  cogitations  have 
occupied  my  mind  at  intervals,  respecting  the 
dim  design.”  The  design  was  the  weekly  periodi- 
cal so  often  in  his  thoughts,  of  which  more  will 
appear  in  my  next  chapter.  His  letter  closed 
with  intimations  of  discomfort  in  his  health ; of 
an  obstinate  cough ; and  of  a determination  he 
had  formed  to  mount  daily  to  the  top  of  the 
downs.  “ It  makes  a great  difference  in  the 
climate  to  get  a blow  there  and  come  down 
again.”  Then  I heard  of  the  doctor  “ stetho- 
scoping” him,  of  his  hope  that  all  was  right  in 
that  quarter,  and  of  rubbings  “a  la  St.  John 
Long”  being  ordered  for  his  chest.  But  the 
mirth  still  went  on.  “ There  has  been  a Doctor 
Lankester  at  Sandown,  a very  good  merry  fellow, 
who  has  made  one  at  the  picnics,  and  whom  I 
went  over  and  dined  with,  along  with  Danby  (I 
remember  your  liking  for  Danby,  and  don’t 
wonder  at  it).  Leech,  and  White.”  A letter  to- 
wards the  close  of  August  resumed  yet  more  of 
his  ordinary  tone.  “ We  had  games  and  forfeits 
last  night  at  White’s.  Davy  Roberts’s  pretty 
little  daughter  is  there  for  a week,  with  her 
husband,  Bicknell’s  son.  There  was  a dinner 
first  to  say  good-bye  to  Danby,  who  goes  to 
other  clergyman’s-duty,  and  we  were  very  merry. 
Mrs.  White  unchanging ; White  comically  vari- 
ous in  his  moods.  Talfourd  comes  down  next 
Tuesday,  and  we  think  of  going  over  to  Ryde 
on  Monday,  visiting  the  play,  sleeping  there  (I 
don’t  mean  at  the  play)  and  bringing  the  Judge 
back.  Browne  is  coming  down  when  he  has 
done  his  month’s  work.  Should  you  like  to  go 
to  Alum  Bay,  while  you  are  here  ? It  would  in- 

volve  a night  out,  but  I think  would  be  very 
pleasant ; and  if  you  think  so  too,  I will  arrange 
it  sub  rosa,  so  that  we  may  not  be,  like  Bobadil, 

‘ oppressed  by  numbers.’  I mean  to  take  a fly 
over  from  Shanklin  to  meet  you  at  Ryde ; so 
that  we  can  walk  back  from  Shanklin  over  the 
landslip,  where  the  scenery  is  wonderfully  beau- 
tiful. Stone  and  Egg  are  coming  next  month, 
and  we  hope  to  see  Jerrold  before  we  go.”  Such 
notices  from  his  letters  may  be  thought  hardly 
worth  preserving  : but  a wonderful  vitality  in 
every  circumstance,  as  long  as  life  under  any 
conditions  remained  to  the  writer,  is  the  picture 
they  contribute  to ; nor  would  it  be  complete 
without  the  addition,  that  fond  as  he  was,  in  the 
intervals  of  his  work,  of  this  abundance  and 
variety  of  enjoyments,  to  no  man  were  so  essen- 
tial also  those  quieter  hours  of  thought,  and  talk, 
not  obtainable  when  oppressed  by  numbers.” 

My  visit  was  due  at  the  opening  of  September, 
but  a few  days  earlier  came  the  full  revelation  of 
which  only  a passing  shadow  had  reached  in  two 
or  three  previous  letters.  “ Before  I think  of 
beginning  my  next  number,  I perhaps  cannot  do 
better  than  give  you  an  imperfect  description  of 
the  results  of  the  climate  of  Bonchurch  after  a 
few  weeks’  residence.  The  first  salubrious  effect 
of  which  the  Patient  becomes  conscious  is  an 
almost  continual  feeling  of  sickness,  accompanied 
with  great  prostration  of  strength,  so  that  his 
legs  tremble  under  him,  and  his  arms  quiver 
when  he  wants  to  take  hold  of  any  object.  An 
extraordinary  disposition  to  sleep  (except  at 
night,  when  his  rest,  in  the  event  of  his  having 
any,  is  broken  by  incessant  dreams)  is  always 
present  at  the  same  time ; and,  if  he  have  any- 
thing to  do  requiring  thought  and  attention,  this 
overpowers  him  to  such  a degree  that  he  can 
only  do  it  in  snatches : lying  down  on  beds  in 
the  fitful  intervals.  Extreme  depression  of  mind, 
and  a disposition  to  shed  tears  from  morning  to 
night,  developes  itself  at  the  same  period.  If 
the  Patient  happen  to  have  been  a good  walker, 
he  finds  ten  miles  an  insupportable  distance ; in 
the  achievement  of  which  his  legs  are  so  un- 
steady, that  he  goes  from  side  to  side  of  the 
road,  like  a drunken  man.  If  he  happen  to  have 
ever  possessed  any  energy  of  any  kind,  he  finds 
it  quenched  in  a dull,  stupid  languor.  He  has 
no  purpose,  power,  or  object  in  existence  what- 
ever. When  he  brushes  his  hair  in  the  morning, 
he  is  so  weak  that  he  is  obliged  to  sit  upon  a 
chair  to  do  it.  He  is  incapable  of  reading,  at  all 
times.  And  his  bilious  system  is  so  utterly  over- 
thrown, that  a ball  of  boiling  fat  appears  to  be 
always  behind  the  top  of  the  bridge  of  his  nose, 
simmering  between  his  haggard  eyes.  If  he 

— L 

252  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


should  have  caught  a cold,  he  will  find  it  im- 
possible to  get  rid  of  it,  as  his  system  is  wholly 
incapable  of  making  any  effort.  His  cough  will 
be  deep,  monotonous,  and  constant.  ‘ The 
; faithful  watch-dog’s  honest  bark  ’ will  be  nothing 
I to  it.  He  will  abandon  all  present  idea  of  over- 
coming it,  and  will  content  himself  with  keeping 
an  eye  upon  his  blood-vessels  to  preserve  them 
whole  and  sound.  Faticnfs  ?ia?ne,  Inimitable 

B It’s  a mortal  mistake  ! — That’s  the 

plain  fact.  Of  all  the  places  I ever  have  been 
in,  I have  never  been  in  one  so  difficult  to  exist 
in,  pleasantly.  Naples  is  hot  and  dirty.  New 
York  feverish,  Washington  bilious,  Genoa  ex- 
citing, Paris  rainy — but  Bonchurch,  smashing. 
I am  quite  convinced  that  I should  die  here,  in 
a year.  It’s  not  hot,  it’s  not  close,  I don’t  know 
what  it  is,  but  the  prostration  of  it  is  auifiil. 
Nobody  here  has  the  least  idea  what  I think  of 
it ; but  I find  from  all  sorts  of  hints  from  Kate, 
Georgina,  and  the  Leeches,  that  they  are  all 
affected  more  or  less  in  the  same  way,  and  find 
it  very  difficult  to  make  head  against.  I make 
no  sign,  and  pretend  not  to  know  what  is  going 
on.  But  they  are  right.  I believe  the  Leeches 
will  go  soon,  and  small  blame  to  ’em  ! — For  me, 
when  I leave  here  at  the  end  of  this  September, 
I must  go  down  to  some  cold  place  ; as  Rams- 
gate for  example,  for  a week  or  two ; or  I seri- 
ously believe  I shall  feel  the  effects  of  it  for  a 

long  time What  do  you  think  of  that  ? 

....  The  longer  I live,  the  more  I doubt  the 
doctors.  I am  perfectly  convinced,  that,  for 
people  suffering  under  a wasting  disease,  this 
Undercliff  is  madness  altogether.  The  doctors, 
with  the  old  miserable  folly  of  looking  at  one  bit 
of  a subject,  take  the  patient’s  lungs  and  the 
Undercliff’s  air,  and  settle  solemnly  that  they 
are  fit  for  each  other.  But  the  whole  influence 
of  the  place,  never  taken  into  consideration,  is  to 
reduce  and  overpower  vitality.  I am  quite  con- 
fident that  I should  go  down  under  it,  as  if  it 
were  so  much  lead,  slowly  crushing  me.  An 
American  resident  in  Paris  many  years,  who 
brought  me  a letter  from  Olliffe,  said,  the  day 
before  yesterday,  that  he  had  always  had  a passion 
for  the  sea  never  to  be  gratified  enough,  but  that 
after  living  here  a month,  he  could  not  bear  to 
look  at  it ; he  couldn’t  endure  the  sound  of  it ; 
he  didn’t  know  how  it  was,  but  it  seemed  as- 
sociated with  the  decay  of  his  whole  powers.” 
These  were  grave  imputations  against  one  of  the 
prettiest  places  in  England  ; but  of  the  generally 
depressing  influence  of  that  Undercliff  on  par- 
ticular temperaments,  I had  already  enough  ex- 
perience to  abate  something  of  the  surprise  with 
which  I read  the  letter.  What  it  too  bluntly 


puts  aside  are  the  sufferings  other  than  his  own, 
protected  and  sheltered  by  what  only  aggravated 
his  ; but  my  visit  gave  me  proof  that  he  had 
really  very  little  overstated  the  effect  upon  him- 
self. Making  allowance,  which  sometimes  he 
failed  to  do,  for  special  peculiarities,  and  for  the 
excitability  never  absent  when  he  had  in  hand 
an  undertaking  such  as  Coppa-Jicld,  there  was  a 
nervous  tendency  to  misgivings  and  apprehen- 
sions to  the  last  degree  unusual  with  him,  which 
seemed  to  make  the  commonest  things  difficult ; 
and  though  he  stayed  out  his  time,  and  brought 
away  nothing  that  his  happier  associations  with 
the  place  and  its  residents  did  not  long  survive, 
he  never  returned  to  Bonchurch. 

In  the  month  that  remained  he  completed 
his  fifth  number,  and  with  the  proof  there  came 
the  reply  to  some  questions  of  which  I hardly 
remember  more  than  that  they  referred  to  doubts 
having  reference,  among  other  things,  to  the 
propriety  of  the  kind  of  delusion  he  had  first 
given  to  poor  Mr.  Dick,  which  appeared  to  be 
a little  too  farcical  for  that  really  touching  de- 
lineation of  character.  “Your  suggestion  is 
perfectly  wise  and  sound,”  he  wrote  back  (22nd 
August).  “I  have  acted  on  it.  I have  also, 
instead  of  the  bull  and  china-shop  delusion, 
given  Dick  the  idea,  that,  when  the  head  of 
king  Charles  the  First  was  cut  off,  some  of  the 
trouble  was  taken  out  of  it  and  put  into  his 
(Dick’s).”  When  he  next  wrote,  there  was  news 
very  welcome  to  me  for  the  pleasure  to  himself 
it  involved.  “ Browne  has  sketched  an  uncom- 
monly characteristic  and  capital  Mr.  Micawber 
for  the  next  number.  I hope  the  present  num- 
ber is  a good  one.  I hear  nothing  but  pleasant 
accounts  of  the  general  satisfaction.”  The  same 
letter  told  me  of  an  intention  to  go  to  Broad- 
stairs,  put  aside  by  doubtful  reports  of  its  sani- 
tary condition  ; but  it  will  be  seen  presently 
that  there  was  another  graver  interruption.  With 
his  work  well  off  his  hands,  however,  he  had 
been  getting  on  better  where  he  was  ; and  they 
had  all  been  very  merry.  “ Yes,”  he  said, 
writing  after  a couple  of  days  (23rd  of  Septem- 
ber), “ we  have  been  sufficiently  rollicking  since 
I finished  the  number ; and  have  had  great 
games  at  rounders  every  afternoon,  with  all 
Bonchurch  looking  on  ; Irut  1 begin  to  long  for 
a little  peace  and  solitude.  And  now  for  my 
less  pleasing  piece  of  news.  The  sea  has  been 
running  very  high,  and  Leech,  while  bathing, 
was  knocked  over  by  a bail  blow  from  a great 
wave  on  the  forehead.  He  is  in  bed,  and  harl 
twenty  of  his  namesakes  on  his  temples  this 
morning.  When  I heard  of  him  just  now,  he 
was  asleep — which  he  had  not  been  all  nightJ* 


SEASIDE  HOLIDA  VS. 


He  closed  his  letter  hopefully,  but  next  day 
(24th  September)  I had  less  favourable  report. 
“Leech  has  been  very  ill  with  congestion  of  the 
brain  ever  since  I wrote,  and  being  still  in  ex- 
cessive pain  has  had  ice  to  his  head  continuously, 
and  been  bled  in  the  arm  besides.  Beard  and 
I sat  up  there,  all  night.”  On  the  26th  he  wrote. 
“ My  plans  are  all  unsettled  by  Leech’s  illness  j 
as  of  course  I do  not  like  to  leave  this  place 
while  I can  be  of  any  service  to  him  and  his 
good  little  wife.  But  all  visitors  are  gone  to- 
day, and  Winterbourne  once  more  left  to  the 
engaging  family  of  the  inimitable  B.  Ever  since 
I wrote  to  you  Leeeh  has  been  seriously  worse, 
and  again  very  heavily  bled.  The  night  before 
last  he  was  in  such  an  alarming  state  of  restless- 
ness, which  nothing  could  relieve,  that  I pro- 
posed to  Mrs.  Leech  to  try  magnetism.  Ac- 
cordingly in  the  middle  of  the  night  I fell 
to ; and,  after  a very  fatiguing  bout  of  it, 
put  him  to  sleep  for  an  hour  and  thirty-five 
minutes.  A change  came  on  in  the  sleep, 
and  he  is  decidedly  better.  I talked  to  the 
astounded  little  Mrs.  Leech  across  him,  when 
he  was  asleep,  as  if  he  had  been  a truss  of  hay. 
....  'What  do  you  think  of  my  setting  up  in 
the  magnetic  line  with  a large  brass  -plate? 
‘Terms,  twenty-five  guineas  per  nap.’”  When 
he  wrote  on  the  30th,  he  had  completed  his 
sixth  number  ; and  his  friend  was  so  clearly  on 
the  way  to  recovery  that  he  was  himself  next 
day  to  leave  for  Broadstairs  with  his  wife,  her 
sister,  and  the  two  little  girls.  “ I will  merely 
add  that  I entreat  to  be  kindly  remembered  to 
Thackeray  ” (who  had  a dangerous  illness  at 
this  time) ; “ that  I think  I have,  without  a 
doubt,  got  the  Periodical  notion  ; and  that  I am 
writing  under  the  depressing  and  discomforting 
influence  of  paying  off  the  tribe  of  bills  that  pour 
in  upon  an  unfortunate  family-young  man  on  the 
eve  of  a residence  like  this.  So  no  more  at 
present  from  the  disgusted,  though  still  inimi- 
table, and  always  affectionate  B.” 

He  stayed  at  Broadstairs  till  he  had  finished 
his  number  seven,  and  what  else  chiefly  occu- 
pied him  were  thoughts  about  the  Periodical  of 
which  account  will  presently  be  given.  “Such 
a night  and  day  of  rain,”  ran  his  first  letter,  “ I 
should  think  the  oldest  inhabitant  never  saw! 
and  yet,  in  the  ould  formiliar  Broadstairs,  I 
somehow  or  other  don’t  mind  it  much.  The 
change  has  done  Mamey  a world  of  good,  and 
I have  begun  to  sleep  again.  As  for  news,  you 
might  as  well  ask  me  for  dolphins.  Nobody  in 
Broadstairs — to  speak  of.  Certainly  nobody  in 
Ballard’s.  We  are  in  the  part,  which  is  the 
house  next  door  to  the  hotel  itself,  that  we  once 


253 


had  for  three  years  running,  and  just  as  quiet 
and  snug  now  as  it  was  then.  I don’t  think  I 
shall  return  before  the  20th  or  so,  when  the 
number  is  done ; but  I viay,  in  some  inconstant 
freak,  run  up  to  you  before.  Preliminary  de- 
spatches and  advices  shall  be  forwarded  in  any 
case  to  the  fragrant  neighbourhood  of  Glare- 
market  and  the  Portugal-street  burying-ground.” 
Such  was  his  polite  designation  of  my  where- 
abouts : for  which  nevertheless  he  had  secret 
likings.  “ On  the  Portsmouth  railway,  coming 
here,  encountered  Kenyon.  On  the  ditto  ditto 
at  Reigate,  encountered  young  Dilke,  and  took 
him  in  tow  to  Canterbury.  On  the  ditto  ditto 
at  ditto  (meaning  Reigate),  encountered  Fox, 
M.P.  for  Oldham,  and  his  daughter.  All  within 
an  hour.  Young  Dilke  great  about  the  pro- 
posed Exposition  under  the  direction  of  H.R.H. 
Prince  Albert,  and  evincing,  very  pleasantly  to 
me,  unbounded  faith  in  our  old  friend  his  father.” 
There  was  one  more  letter,  taking  a rather 
gloomy  view  of  public  affairs  in  connection  with 
an  inflated  pastoral  from  Doctor  Wiseman 
“given  out  of  the  Flaminian  Gate,”  and  speak- 
ing dolefully  of  some  family  matters  ; which  was 
subscribed,  each  word  forming  a separate  line, 
“Yours  Despondently,  And  Disgustedly,  Wil- 
kins Micawber.” 

His  visit  to  the  little  watering-place  in  the  fol- 
lowing year  \vas  signalised  by  his  completion  of 
the  most  famous  of  his  novels,  and  his  letters 
otherwise  were  occupied  by  elaborate  managerial 
preparation  for  the  private  performances  at 
Knebworth.  But  again  the  plague  of  itinerant 
music  flung  him  into  such  fevers  of  irritation, 
that  he  finally  resolved  against  any  renewed 
attempt  to  carry  on  important  work  here ; and 
the  summer  of  1851,  when  he  was  busy  with 
miscellaneous  writing  only,  was  the  last  of  his 
regular  residences  in  the  place.  He  then  let 
his  London  house  for  the  brief  remainder  of  its 
term ; running  away  at  the  end  of  May,  when 
some  grave  family  sorrows  had  befallen  him, 
from  the  crowds  and  excitements  of  the  Great 
Exhibition ; and  I will  only  add  generally  of 
these  seaside  residences  that  his  reading  was 
considerable  and  very  various  at  such  intervals 
of  labour.  One  of  them,  as  I remember,  took 
in  all  the  minor  tales  as  well  as  the  plays  of 
Voltaire,  several  of  the  novels  (old  favourites 
with  him)  of  Paul  de  Kock,  Ruskin’s  Lamps  of 
Architecture,  and  a surprising  number  of  books 
of  African  and  other  travel  for  which  he  had  in- 
satiable relish : but  there  was  never  much  notice 
of  his  reading  in  his  letters.  “By  the  bye,  I 
observe,  reading  that  wonderful  book  the  Ercnch 
Revolution  again  for  the  500th  time,  that  Carlyle, 


254 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


who  knows  everything,  don’t  know  what  Mumbo 
Jumbo  is.  It  is  not  an  Idol.  It  is  a secret  pre- 
served among  the  men  of  certain  African  tribes, 
and  never  revealed  by  any  of  them,  for  the  punish- 
ment of  their  women.  Mumbo  Jumbo  comes 
in  hideous  form  out  of  the  forest,  or  the  mud,  or 
the  river,  or  where  not,  and  flogs  some  woman 
who  has  been  backbiting,  or  scolding,  or  with 
some  other  domestic  mischief  disturbing  the 
general  peace.  Carlyle  seems  to  confound  him 
with  the  common  Fetish  ; but  he  is  quite  another 
thing.  He  is  a disguised  man ; and  all  aDout 
him  is  a freemasons’  secret  among  the  nienJ' — “ I 
finished  the  Scarlet  Letter  yesterday.  It  falls  off 
sadly  after  that  fine  opening  scene.  The  psy- 
chological part  of  the  story  is  very  much  over- 
done, and  not  truly  done  I think.  I'heir  sud- 
denness of  meeting  and  agreeing  to  go  away 
together  after  all  those  years,  is  very  poor.  Mr. 
Chillingworth  ditto.  The  child  out  of  nature 
altogether.  And  Mr.  Dinnnisdale  certainly  never 
could  have  begotten  her.”  In  Mr.  Hawthorne’s 
earlier  books  he  had  taken  especial  pleasure ; 
his  Mosses  from  an  Old  Manse  having  been  the 
first  book  he  placed  in  my  hands  on  his  return 
from  America,  with  reiterated  injunctions  to 
read  it.  I will  add  a word  or  two  of  what  he 
wrote  of  the  clever  story  of  another  popular 
writer,  because  it  hits  well  the  sort  of  ability 
that  has  become  so  common,  which  escapes  the 
highest  point  of  cleverness,  but  stops  short  only 
at  the  very  verge  of  it.  “ The  story  extremely 
good  indeed  ; but  all  the  strongest  things  of 
which  it  is  capable,  missed.  It  shows  just  how 
far  that  kind  of  power  can  go.  It  is  more  like 
a note  of  the  idea  than  anything  else.  It  seems 
to  me  as  if  it  were  written  by  somebody  who 
lived  next  door  to  the  people,  rather  than  inside 
of  ’em.” 


IV. 

CIIRISTMA.S  BOOKS  CLOSED  AND  HOUSE- 
HOLD WORDS  BEGUN. 


book — or,  as  poor  Macrone  used  to  write, 

‘ booke,’  ‘ boke,’  ‘buke,’ &c.”  It  was  the  first 
labour  to  which  he  applied  himself  at  his  return. 

In  London  it  soon  came  to  maturity ; was 
published  duly  as  The  Haunted  Man,  or  the 
Ghost's  Bargain ; sold  largely,  beginning  with  a 
subscription  of  twenty  thousand ; and  had  a 
great  success  on  the  Adelphi  stage,  to  which  it 
was  rather  cleverly  adapted  by  Lemon.  He 
had  placed  on  its  title  page  originally  four  lines 
from  Tennyson’s  “ Departure.” 

“And  o’er  the  hills,  and  far  away 
Beyond  their  utmost  purple  rim, 

Beyond  the  night,  across  the  day. 

Thro’  all  the  world  it  followed  him  ; ” 

but  they  were  less  applicable  to  the  close  than 
to  the  opening  of  the  tale,  and  were  dropped 
before  publication.  The  hero  is  a great  chemist, 
a lecturer  at  an  old  foundation,  a man  of  studi- 
ous philosophic  habits,  haunted  with  recollec- 
tions of  the  past  “ o’er  which  his  melancholy  sits 
on  brood,”  thinking  his  knowledge  of  the  present 
a worthier  substitute,  and  at  last  parting  with 
that  portion  of  himself  which  he  thinks  he  can 
safely  cast  away.  The  recollections  are  of  a 
great  wrong  done  him  in  early  life,  and  of  all 
the  sorrow  consequent  upon  it  ■ and  the  ghost 
he  holds  nightly  conference  with,  is  the  darker 
presentment  of  himself  embodied  in  those  bitter 
recollections.  This  part  is  finely  managed.  Out 
of  heaped-up  images  of  gloomy  and  wintry 
fancies,  the  supernatural  takes  a shape  which  is 
not  forced  or  violent ; and  the  dialogue  which  is 
no  dialogue,  but  a kind  of  dreary  dreamy  echo, 
is  a piece  of  ghostly  imagination  better  than 
Mrs.  Radcliffe.  The  boon  desired  is  granted 
and  the  bai'gain  struck.  He  is  not  only  to  lose 
his  own  recollection  of  grief  and  wrong,  but  to 
destroy  the  like  memory  in  all  whom  he  ap- 
proaches. By  this  means  the  effect  is  shown  in 
humble  as  well  as  higher  minds,  in  the  worst 
jroverty  as  in  competence  or  ease,  always  with 
the  same  result.  The  over-thinking  sage  loses 
his  own  affections  and  sympathy,  sees  them 
crushed  in  others,  and  is  brought  to  the  level  of 
the  only  creature  whom  he  cannot  change  oi 
influence,  an  outcast  of  the  streets,  a boy  whom 
the  mere  animal  appetites  have  turned  into  a 
small  fiend.  Never  having  had  his  mind  awak- 
ened, evil  is  this  creature’s  good ; avarice,  irre- 
verence, and  vindictiveness,  are  his  nature ; 
sorrow  has  no  jilace  in  his  memory  j and  from 
his  brutish  propensities  the  philosopher  can  take 
nothing  away.  The  juxtaposition  of  two  peoiilc 
whom  such  opposite  means  have  put  in  the 
same  moral  position  is  a stroke  of  excellent  art. 
There  are  [ilcnty  of  incredibilities  and  incon- 


1848—1850. 

■T  has  been  seen  that  his  fancy  for 
his  Christmas  book  of  1848  first 
arose  to  him  at  Lausanne  in  the 
summer  of  1846,  and  that,  after 
writing  its  opening  pages  in  the 
autumn  of  the  following  year,  he 
laid  it  aside  under  the  pressure  of  his 
Domhey.  These  lines  were  in  the  letter 
that  closed  his  1848  Broadstairs  holiday.  _ “At 
last  I am  a mentally  matooring  of  the  Christmas 


ZASr  OF  THE  CHRISTMAS  BOOKS. 


255 


sistencies,  just  as  in  the  pleasant  Cricket  on  the 
Hearth,  which  we  do  not  care  about,  but  enjoy 
rather  than  otherwise  ; and,  as  in  that  charming 
little  book,  there  were  minor  characters  as  de- 
lightful as  anything  in  Dickens.  The  Tetterby 
group,  in  whose  humble,  homely,  kindly,  un- 
gainly figures  there  is  everything  that  could 
suggest  itself  to  a clear  eye,  a piercing  wit,  and 
a loving  heart,  became  enormous  favourites. 
Tilly  Slowboy  and  her  little  dot  of  a baby, 
charging  folks  with  it  as  if  it  were  an  offensive 
instrument,  or  handing  it  about  as  if  it  were 
something  to  drink,  were  not  more  popular  than 
poor  Johnny  Tetterby  staggering  under  his  Mo- 
loch of  an  infant,  the  Juggernaut  that  crushes 
all  his  enjoyments.  The  story  itself  consists  of 
nothing  more  than  the  effects  of  the  Ghost’s  gift 
upon  the  various  groups  of  people  introduced, 
and  the  way  the  end  is  arrived  at  is  very  spe- 
cially in  Dickens’s  manner.  What  the  highest 
exercise  of  the  intellect  had  missed  is  found  in 
the  simplest  form  of  the  affections.  The  wife  of 
the  custodiair  of  the  college  where  the  chemist 
is  professor,  in  whom  are  all  the  unselfish  virtues 
that  can  beautify  and  endear  the  humblest  con- 
dition, is  the  instrument  of  the  change.  Such 
sorrow  as  she  has  suffered  had  made  her  only 
zealous  to  relieve  others’  sufferings ; and  the 
discontented  wise  man  learns  from  her  example 
that  the  world  is,  after  all,  a much  happier  com- 
promise than  it  seems  to  be,  and  life  easier  than 
wisdom  is  apt  to  think  it ; that  grief  gives  joy 
its  relish,  purifying  what  it  touches  truly ; and 
that  “ sweet  are  the  uses  of  adversity  ” when  its 
clouds  are  not  the  shadow  of  dishonour.  All 
this  can  be  shown  but  lightly  within  such  space, 
it  is  true ; and  in  the  machinery  a good  deal 
has  to  be  taken  for  granted.  But  Dickens  was 
quite  justified  in  turning  aside  from  objections 
of  that  kind.  “ You  must  suppose,”  he  wrote 
to  me  (21st  of  November),  “that  the  Ghost’s 
saving  clause  gives  him  those  glimpses  without 
which  it  would  be  impossible  to  carry  out  the 
idea.  Of  course  my  point  is  that  bad  and  good 
are  inextricably  linked  in  remembrance,  and 
that  you  could  not  choose  the  enjoyment  of 
recollecting  only  the  good.  To  have  all  the 
best  of  it  you  must  remember  the  worst  also. 
My  intention  in  the  other  point  you  mention  is, 
that  he  should  not  know  himself  how  he  com- 
municates the  gift,  whether  by  look  or  touch ; 
and  that  it  should  diffuse  itself  in  its  own  way  in 
eacli  case.  I can  make  this  clearer  by  a very 
few  lines  in  the  second  part.  It  is  not  only 
necessary  to  be  so,  for  the  variety  of  the  story, 
but  I think  it  makes  the  thing  wilder  and 
stranger.”  Critical  niceties  are  indeed  out  of 


place,  where  wildness  and  strangeness  of  means 
matter  less  than  that  there  should  be  clearness 
of  drift  and  intention.  Dickens  leaves  no  doubt 
as  to  this.  He  thoroughly  makes  out  his  fancy, 
that  no  man  should  so  far  question  the  mysteri- 
ous dispensations  of  evil  in  this  world  as  to 
desire  to  lose  the  recollection  of  such  injustice 
or  misery  as  he  may  suppose  it  to  have  done  to 
himself.  There  may  have  been  sorrow,  but  there 
was  the  kindness  that  assuaged  it ; there  may 
have  been  wrong,  but  there  was  the  charity  that 
forgave  it ; and  with  both  are  connected  in- 
separably so  many  thoughts  that  soften  and 
exalt  whatever  else  is  in  the  sense  of  memory, 
that  what  is  good  and  pleasurable  in  life  would 
cease  to  continue  so  if  these  were  forgotten. 
The  old  proverb  does  not  tell  you  to  forget  that 
you  may  forgive,  but  to  forgive  that  you  may 
forget.  It  is  forgiveness  of  wrong,  for  forgetful- 
ness of  the  evil  that  was  in  it ; such  as  poor  old 
Lear  begged  of  Cordelia. 

The  design  for  his  much-thought-of  new  Peri- 
odical was  still  “ dim,”  as  we  have  seen,  when 
the  first  cogitation  of  it  at  Bonchurch  occupied 
him ; but  the  expediency  of  making  it  clearer 
came  soon  after  with  a visit  from  Mr.  Evans, 
who  brought  his  half-year’s  accounts  of  sales, 
and  some  small  disappointment  for  him  in  those 
of  Copperfield.  “ The  accounts  are  rather  shy, 
after  Dombey,  and  what  you  said  comes  true 
after  all.  I am  not  sorry  I cannot  bring  myself 
to  care  much  for  what  opinions  people  may 
form  ; and  I have  a strong  belief,  that,  if  any  of 
my  books  are  read  years  hence,  Dombey  will  be 
remembered  as  among  the  best  of  them  : but 
passing  influences  are  important  for  the  time, 
and  as  Chuzzlewit  with  its  small  sale  sent  me  up, 
Dombey's  large  sale  has  tumbled  me  down.  Not 
very  much,  however,  in  real  truth.  These  ac- 
counts only  include  the  first  three  numbers, 
have  of  course  been  burdened  with  all  the 
heavy  expenses  of  number  one,  and  ought  not 
in  reason  to  be  complained  of.  But  it  is  clear 
to  me  that  the  Periodical  must  be  set  agoing  in 
the  spring ; and  I have  already  been  busy,  at 
odd  half-hours,  in  shadowing  forth  a name  and 
an  idea.  Evans  says  they  have  but  one  opinion 
repeated  to  them  of  Copperfield,  and  they  feel 
very  confident  about  it.  A steady  twenty-five 
thousand,  which  it  is  now  on  the  verge  of,  will 
do  very  well.  The  back  numbers  are  always 
going  off.  Read  the  enclosed.” 

It  was  a letter  from  a Russian  man  of  letters, 
dated  from  St.  Petersburg,  and  signed  “ Trinarch 
Ivansvitch  Wredenskii,”  sending  him  a transla- 
tion of  Dombey  into  Russian  ■,  and  informing 
him  that  his  works,  which  before  had  only  been 


256 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


translated  in  the  journals,  and  with  certain 
omissions,  had  now  been  translated  in  their 
entire  form  by  his  correspondent,  though  even 
he  had  found  an  omission  to  be  necessary  in 
his  version  of  Pickwick.  He  adds,  with  an  ex- 
quisite courtesy  to  our  national  tongue  which  is 
yet  not  forgetful  of  the  claims  of  his  own  nation- 
ality, that  his  difficulties  (in  the  Sam  Weller 
direction  and  others)  had  arisen  from  the  “ im- 
possibility of  portraying  faithfully  the  beauties 
of  the  original  in  the  Russian  language,  which, 
though  the  richest  in  Europe  in  its  expressive- 
ness, is  far  from  being  elaborate  enough  for 
literature  like  other  civilized  languages.”  He 
had,  however,  he  assured  Dickens,  been  unre- 
mitting in  his  efforts  to  live  with  his  thoughts  ; 
and  the  exalted  opinion  he  had  formed  of  them 
was  attended  by  only  one  wish,  that  such  a 
writer  “ could  but  have  expanded  under  a 
Russian  sky  !”  Still,  his  fate  was  an  enviable 
one.  “ For  the  last  eleven  years  your  name  has 
enjoyed  a wide  celebrity  in  Russia,  and  from 
the  banks  of  the  Neva  to  the  remotest  parts  of 
Siberia  you  are  read  with  avidity.  Your  Dombey 
continues  to  inspire  with  enthusiasm  the  whole 
of  the  literary  Russia.”  Much  did  we  delight  in 
the  good  Wredenskii ; and  for  a long  time,  on 
anything  going  “ contrairy  ” in  the  public  or 
private  direction  with  him,  he  would  tell  me  he 
had  ordered  his  portmanteau  to  be  packed  for 
the  more  sympathizing  and  congenial  climate  of 
“ the  remotest  parts  of  Siberia.” 

The  week  before  he  left  Bonchurch  I again 
had  news  of  the  old  and  often  recurring  fancy. 
“ The  old  notion  of  the  Periodical,  which  had 
been  agitating  itself  in  my  mind  for  so  long,  I 
really  think  is  at  last  gradually  growing  into 
form.”  This  was  on  the  24th  of  September ; 
and  on  the  7th  of  October,  from  Broadstairs,  1 
had  something  of  the  form  it  had  been  taking. 

“ I do  great  injustice  to  my  floating  ideas 
(pretty  speedily  and  comfortably  settling  down 
into  orderly  arrangement)  by  saying  anything 
about  the  Periodical  now  : but  my  notion  is  a 
weekly  journal,  price  either  three-halfpence  or 
twopence,  matter  in  part  original  and  in  part 
selected,  and  always  having,  if  possible,  a little 

good  poetry Upon  the  selected  matter, 

I have  particular  notions.  One  is,  that  it  should 
always  be  a subject.  For  example,  a history  of 
Piracy ; in  connection  with  which  there  is  a vast 
deal  of  extraordinary,  romantic,  and  almost  un- 
known matter.  A history  of  Knight-errantry, 
and  the  wild  old  notion  of  the  Sangreal.  A 
history  of  Savages,  showing  the  singular  respects 
in  which  all  savages  are  like  each  other ; and 
those  which  civilised  men,  under  circumstances 


of  difficulty,  soonest  become  like  savages.  A 
history  of  remarkable  characters,  good  and  bad, 
in  history ; to  assist  the  reader’s  judgment  in 
his  observation  of  men,  and  in  his  estimates  of 
the  truth  of  many  characters  in  fiction.  All 
these  things,  and  fifty  others  that  I have  already 
thought  of,  would  be  compilations  ; through  the 
whole  of  which  the  general  intellect  and  purpose 
of  the  paper  should  run,  and  in  which  there 
would  be  scarcely  less  interest  than  in  the  ori- 
ginal matter.  The  original  matter  to  be  essays, 
reviews,  letters,  theatrical  criticisms,  &c.  &c.  as 
amusing  as  possible,  but  all  distinctly  and  boldly 
going  to  what  in  one’s  own  view  ought  to  be  the 

spirit  of  the  people  and  the  time Now 

to  bind  all  this  together,  and  to  get  a character 
established  as  it  w’ere  which  any  of  the  writers 
may  maintain  without  difficulty,  I want  to  sup- 
pose a certain  Shadow,  which  may  go  into  any 
place,  by  sunlight,  moonlight,  starlight,  firelight, 
candlelight,  and  be  in  all  homes,  and  all  nooks 
and  corners,  and  be  supposed  to  be  cognisant 
of  everything,  and  go  everywhere,  without  the 
least  difficulty.  Which  may  be  in  the  Theatre, 
the  Palace,  the  House  of  Commons,  the  Prisons, 
the  Unions,  the  Churches,  on  the  Railroad,  on 
the  Sea,  abroad  and  at  home  : a kind  of  semi- 
omniscient,  omnipresent,  intangible  creature. 

I don’t  think  it  would  do  to  call  the  paper  The 
Shadow  : but  I want  something  tacked  to  that 
title,  to  express  the  notion  of  its  being  a cheer- 
ful, useful,  and  always  welcome  Shadow.  I want 
to  open  the  first  number  with  this  Shadow’s 
account  of  himself  and  his  family.  I want  to 
have  all  the  correspondence  addressed  to  him. 

I want  him  to  issue  his  warnings  from  time  to 
time,  that  he  is  going  to  fall  on  such  and  such  a 
subject;  or  to  expose  such  and  such  a piece  of 
humbug ; or  that  he  may  be  expected  shortly  in 
such  and  such  a place.  I want  the  compiled 
part  of  the  paper  to  express  the  idea  of  this 
Shadow’s  having  been  in  libraries,  and  among 
the  books  referred  to.  I want  him  to  loom  as 
a fanciful  thing  all  over  London ; and  to  get  iq) 
a general  notion  of  ‘ What  will  the  Shadow  say 
about  thi.s,  I wonder?  What  will  the  Shadow 
say  about  this?  Is  the  Shadow  here  ? ’ and  so 
forth.  Do  you  understand  ?....!  have  an 
enormous  difficulty  in  expressing  what  I mean, 
in  this  stage  of  the  business ; but  I think  the 
importance  of  the  idea  is,  that  once  stated  on 
paper,  there  is  no  difficulty  in  keeping  it  up. 
That  it  presents  an  odd,  unsubstantial,  whim- 
sical, new  thing  : a sort  of  previously  unthought 
of  Power  going  about.  That  it  will  concentrate 
into  one  locus  all  that  is  done  in  the  paper. 
That  it  sets  up  a creature  which  isn’t  the  Spec- 


HOUSEHOLD  WORDS  BEGUN. 


tator,  and  isn’t  Isaac  Bickerstaff,  and  isn’t  any- 
thing of  that  kind  : but  in  whicli  people  will  be 
per.ectly  willing  to  believe,  and  which  is  just  as 
, mysterious  and  quaint  enough  to  have  a sort  of 
charm  for  their  imagination,  while  it  will  repre- 
sent common-sense  and  humanity.  I want  to 
express  in  the  title,  and  in  the  grasp  of  the  idea 
to  express  also,  that  it  is  the  Thing  at  every- 
body’s elbow,  and  in  everybody’s  footsteps.  At 
the  window,  by  the  fire,  in  the  street,  in  the 
house,  from  infancy  to  old  age,  everybody’s 

inseparable  companion Now  do  you 

make  anything  out  of  this  ? which  I let  off  as  if 
I were  a bladder  full  of  it,  and  you  had  punc- 
tured me.  I have  not  breathed  the  idea  to  any 
one ; but  I have  a lively  hope  that  it  is  an  idea, 
and  that  out  of  it  the  whole  scheme  may  be 
• hammered.” 

Excellent  the  idea  doubtless,  and  so  described 
in  his  letter  that  hardly  anything  more  charac- 
teristic survives  him.  But  I could  not  make 
anything  out  of  it  that  had  a quite  feasible  look. 
The  ordinary  ground  of  miscellaneous  reading, 
selection,  and  compilation  out  of  which  it  was 
to  spring,  seemed  to  me  no  proper  soil  for  the 
imaginative  produce  it  was  meant  to  bear.  As 
his  fancies  grew  and  gathered  round  it,  they  had 
given  it  too  much  of  the  range  and  scope  of  his 
...  own  exhaustless  land  of  invention  and  marvel; 
and  the  very  means  proposed  for  letting  in  the 
help  of  others  would  only  more  heavily  have 
weighted  himself.  Not  to  trouble  the  reader 
now  with  objections  given  him  in  detail,  my 
judgment  was  clear  against  his  plan;  less  for 
any  doubt  of  the  effect  if  its  parts  could  be 
brought  to  combine,  than  for  my  belief  that  it 
was  not  in  that  view  practicable ; and  though 
he  did  not  immediately  accept  my  reasons,  he 
acquiesced  in  them  ultimately.  “ I do  not  lay 
much  stress  on  your  grave  doubts  about  Peri- 
odical, but  more  anon.”  The  more  anon  re- 
solved itself  into  conversations  out  of  which  the 
shape  given  to  the  project  was  that  which  it 
finally  took. 

It  was  to  be  a weekly  miscellany  of  general 
literature;  and  its  stated  objects  were  to  be,  to 
contribute  to  the  entertainment  and  instruction 
of  all  classes  of  readers,  and  to  help  in  the  dis- 
cussion of  the  more  important  social  questions 
of  the  time.  It  was  to  comprise  short  stories 
by  others  as  well  as  himself ; matters  of  passing 
interest  in  the  liveliest  form  that  could  be  given 
to  them  ; subjects  suggested  by  books  that  might 
most  be  attracting  attention  ; and  poetry  in  every 
number  if  possible,  but  in  any  case  something  of 
romantic  fancy.  This  was  to  be  a cardinal  point. 
There  was  to  be  no  mere  utilitarian  spirit;  with 


257 


all  familiar  things,  but  especially  those  repellant 
on  the  surface,  something  was  to  be  connected 
that  should  be  fanciful  or  kindly  ; and  the  hardest 
workers  were  to  be  taught  that  their  lot  is  not 
necessarily  excluded  from  the  sympathies  and 
graces  of  imagination.  This  was  all  finally  settled 
by  the  close  of  1849,  when  a general  announce- 
ment of  the  intended  adventure  was  made. 
There  remained  only  a title  and  an  assistant 
editor  : and  I am  happy  now  to  remember  that 
for  the  latter  important  duty  Mr.  Wills  was 
chosen  at  my  suggestion.  He  discharged  its 
duties  with  admirable  patience  and  ability  for 
twenty  years,  and  Dickens’s  later  life  had  no 
more  intimate  friend. 

The  title  took  some  time  and  occupied  many 
letters.  One  of  the  first  thought-of  has  now  the 
curious  interest  of  having  foreshadowed,  by  the 
motto  proposed  to  accompany  it,  the  title  of  the 
series  of  All  the  Year  Routid  which  he  was  led 
to  substitute  for  the  older  series  in  1859.  “ The 

Robin.  With  this  motto  from  Goldsmith.  The 
redbreast,  celebrated  for  its  affection  to  mankind, 
continues  with  us,  the  year  round."  That  how- 
ever was  rejected.  Then  came  : “ Mankind. 
This  I think  very  good.”  It  followed  the  other 
nevertheless.  After  it  came : “ And  here  a 
strange  idea,  but  with  decided  advantages. 

‘ Charles  Dickens.  A weekly  journal  de- 
signed for  the  instruction  and  entertainment  of 
all  classes  of  readers.  Conducted  by  Him- 
self.’ ” Still  something  was  wanting  in  that 
also.  Next  day  there  arrived  : “ I really  think 
if  there  be  anything  wanting  in  the  other  name, 
that  this  is  very  pretty,  and  just  supplies  it. 
The  Household  Voice.  I have  thought  of 
many  others,  as — The  Household  Guest. 
The  Household  Face.  The  Comrade.  The 
Microscope.  The  Highway  of  Life.  The 
Lever.  The  Rolling  Years.  The  Holly 
Tree  (with  two  lines  from  Southey  for  a motto). 
Everything.  But  I rather  think  the  Voice  is 
it.”  It  was  near  indeed  ; but  the  following  day 
came,  “ Household  Words.  This  is  a very 
pretty  name  and  the  choice  was  made. 

The  first  number  appeared  on  Saturday  the 
30th  of  March,  1850,  and  contained  among  other 
things  the  beginning  of  a story  by  a very  original 
writer,  Mrs.  Gaskell,  for  whose  powers  he  had 
a high  admiration,  and  with  whom  he  had 
friendly  intercourse  during  many  years.  Other 
opportunities  will  arise  for  mention  of  those  with 
whom  this  new  labour  brought  him  into  personal 
communication,  but  I may  at  once  say  that  of 
all  the  writers,  before  unknown,  whom  his 
journal  helped  to  make  familiar  to  a wide  world 
of  readers,  he  had  the  strongest  personal  interest 


258 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICICENS. 


in  Mr.  Sala,  and  placed  at  once  in  the  highest 
rank  his  capabilities  of  help  in  such  an  enter- 
jrrise.  An  illustrative  trait  of  what  I have  named 
as  its  cardinal  point  to  him  will  fitly  close  my 
account  of  its  establishment.  Its  first  number, 
still  unpublished,  had  not  seemed  to  him  quite 
to  fulfil  his  promise,  “ tenderly  to  cherish  the 
light  of  fancy  inherent  in  all  breasts and,  as 
soon  as  he  received  the  proof  of  the  second,  I 
heard  from  him.  “ Looking  over  the  suggested 
contents  of  number  two  at  breakfast  this  morn- 
ing” (Brighton:  14th  of  March,  1850)  “I  felt 
an  uneasy  sense  of  there  being  a want  of  some- 
thing tender,  which  would  apply  to  some  univer- 
sal household  knowledge.  Coming  down  in  the 
railroad  the  other  night  (always  a wonderfully 
suggestive  place  to  me  when  I am  alone)  I was 
looking  at  the  stars,  and  revolving  a little  idea 
about  them.  Putting  now  these  two  things  to- 
gether, I wrote  the  enclosed  little  paper,  straight- 
way ; and  should  like  you  to  read  it  before  you 
send  it  to  the  printers  (it  will  not  take  you  five 
minutes),  and  let  me  have  a proof  by  return.” 
This  was  the  child’s  “ dream  of  a star,”  which 
opened  his  second  number  ; and  though  it  ap- 
pears among  his  reprinted  pieces,  it  may  justify 
a word  or  two  of  description.  It  is  of  a brother 
and  sister,  constant  child-companions,  who  used 
to  make  friends  of  a star,  watching  it  together 
until  they  knew  when  and  where  it  would  rise, 
and  always  bidding  it  good  night ; so  that  when 
the  sister  dies  the  lonely  brother  still  connects 
her  with  the  star,  which  he  then  sees  opening  as 
a world  of  light,  and  its  rays  making  a shining 
pathway  from  earth  to  heaven  3 and  he  also  sees 
angels  waiting  to  receive  travellers  up  that 
sparkling  road,  his  little  sister  among  them  ; and 
he  thinks  ever  after  that  he  belongs  less  to  the 
earth  than  to  the  star  where  his  sister  is  ; and  he 
grows  up  to  youth  and  through  manhood  and  old 
age,  consoled  still  under  the  successive  domestic 
bereavements  that  fall  to  his  earthly  lot  by 
renewal  of  that  vision  of  his  childhood  ; until  at 
last,  lying  on  his  own  bed  of  death,  he  feels  that 
he  is  moving  as  a child  to  his  child-sister,  and 
he  thanks  his  heavenly  father  that  the  star  had 
so  often  opened  before  to  receive  the  dear  ones 
who  awaited  him. 

His  sister  Fanny  and  himself,  he  told  me  long 
before  this  paper  was  written,  used  to  wander  at 
night  about  a churchyard  near  their  house,  look- 
ing up  at  the  stars;  and  her  early  death,  of 
which  I am  shortly  to  speak,  had  vividly  re- 
awakened all  the  childish  associations  which 
made  her  memory  dear  to  him. 


V. 

IN  AID  OF  LITERATURE  AND  ART. 
1850—1852. 

the  year  of  the  establishment  of 
Household  JVbrds  Dickens  resumed 
^ have  called  his  splendid 
strolling  on  behalf  of  a scheme  for 
advantage  of  men  of  letters,  to 
I which  a great  brother-author  had 
^ given  the  sanction  of  his  genius  and 
name.  In  November  1850,  in  the  hall  ' 
of  Lord  Lytton’s  old  family  seat  in  Knebworth-  ! 
park,  there  were  three  private  performances  by  ! 
the  original  actors  in  Ben  Jonson’s  Every  Man 
in  His  Humour,  of  which  all  the  circumstances 
and  surroundings  were  very  brilliant ; some  of 
the  gentlemen  of  the  county  played  both  in 
comedy  and  farces ; our  generous  host  was  pro- 
fuse of  all  noble  encouragement ; and  amid  the 
general  pleasure  and  excitement  hopes  rose  high. 
Recent  experience  had  shown  what  the  public 
interest  in  this  kind  of  amusement  might  place 
within  reach  of  its  providers ; and  there  came  to 
be  discussed  the  possibility  of  making  permanent 
such  help  as  had  been  afforded  to  fellow  writers, 
by  means  of  an  endowment  that  should  not  be 
mere  charity,  but  should  combine  something  of 
both  pension-list  and  college-lectureship,  with- 
out the  drawbacks  of  either.  It  was  not  enough 
considered  that  schemes  for  self-help,  to  be  suc- 
cessful, require  from  those  they  are  meant  to 
benefit,  not  only  a general  assent  to  their  desira- 
bility, but  zealous  co-operation.  Too  readily 
assuming  what  should  have  had  more  thorough 
investigation,  the  enterprise  was  set  on  foot,  and 
the  “ Guild  of  Literature  and  Art”  originated  at 
Knebworth.  A five-act  comedy  was  to  be  writ- 
ten by  Sir  Edward  Lytton  ; and,  when  a certain 
sum  of  money  had  been  obtained  by  public 
representations  of  it,  the  details  of  the  scheme 
were  to  be  drawn  up,  and  appeal  made  to  those 
whom  it  addressed  more  especially.  In  a very 
few  months  everything  rVas  ready,  except  a farce 
which  Dickens  was  to  have  written  to  follow  the 
comedy,  and  which  unexpected  cares  of  ma- 
nagement and  preparation  were  held  to  absolve 
him  from.  There  were  other  reasons.  “ I have 
written  the  first  scene,”  he  told  me  (23rd  of 
March,  1851),  “and  it  has  droll  points  in  it, 

‘ more  farcical  points  than  you  commonly  find 
in  farces,’  really  better.  Yet  I am  constantly 
striving,  for  my  reputation’s  sake,  to  get  into  it 
a meaning  that  is  impossible  in  a farce  ; con- 
stantly thinking  of  it,  therefore,  against  the 


IN  AID  OF  LITERATURE  AND  ART.  259 


grain ; and  constantly  impressed  with  a convic- 
tion that  I could  never  act  in  it  myself  with  that 
wild  abandonment  which  can  alone  carry  a farce 
off.  Wherefore  I have  confessed  to  Bulwer 
Lytton  and  asked  for  absolution.”  There  was 
substituted  a new  farce  of  Lemon’s,  to  which, 
however,  Dickens  soon  contributed  so  many 
jokes  and  so  much  Gampish  and  other  fun  of 
his  own,  that  it  came  to  be  in  effect  a joint  piece 
of  authorship  ; and  Gabblewigg,  which  the  ma- 
nager took  to  himself,  was  one  of  those  persona- 
tion parts  requiring  five  or  six  changes  of  face, 
voice,  and  gait  in  the  course  of  it,  from  which,  i 
as  we  have  seen,  he  derived  all  the  early  the-  1 
atrical  ambition  that  the  elder  Mathews  had 
awakened  in  him.  “ You  have  no  idea,”  he 
continued,  “ of  the  immensity  of  the  work  as  the 
time  advances,  for  the  Duke  even  throws  the  | 
whole  of  the  audience  on  us,  or  he  would  get 
(he  says)  into  all  manner  of  scrapes.” 

“ The  Duke  ” was  the  Duke  of  Devonshire,  of 
whose  love  of  letters  and  interest  for  men  of 
that  calling  I have  given  on  a former  page  {ante, 
200),  one  of  the  many  instances  that  adornerl 
a life  which  alone  perhaps  in  England  was 
genuinely  and  completely  that  of  the  Grand 
Seigneur.  Well-read  and  very  accomplished, 
he  had  the  pleasing  manners  which  proceed  from 
a kind  nature  3 and  splendid  in  his  mode  of 
living  beyond  any  other  English  noble,  his  mag- 
nificence, by  the  ease  and  elegance  that  accom- 
panied it,  was  relieved  from  all  offence  of  osten- 
tation. He  had  offered  his  house  in  Piccadilly 
for  the  first  representations,  and  in  his  princely 
way  discharged  all  the  expenses  attending  them. 

A moveable  theatre  was  built  and  set  up  in  the 
great  drawing-room,  the  library  was  turned  into 
a green-room,  and  here  Lytton’s  comedy  was 
presented.  While  the  rehearsals  were  in  pro- 
gress our  friend  Macready  was  bidding  adieu  to 
the  art  of  which  he  had  long  been  the  leading 
ornament ; and  before  the  comedy  was  produced 
its  author  presided  at  the  farewell  dinner  to  that 
distinguished  actor  on  his  quitting  the  stage. 
Dickens  and  myself  came  up  for  it  from  Malvern 
{^post,  § vi.),  and  a few  words  from  his  speech 
proposing  the  chairman’s  health  will  illustrate 
the  enterprise  on  foot  and  indicate  its  most 
generous  helper.  “ There  is  a popular  prejudice, 
a kind  of  superstition,  that  authors  are  not  a 
particularly  united  body,  and  I am  afraid  that 
this  may  contain  half  a grain  or  so  of  the  vera- 
cious. But  of  our  chairman  I have  never  in  my 
life  made  public  mention  without  adding  what  I 
can  never  repress,  that  in  the  path  we  both  tread 
I have  uniformly  found  him  to  be,  from  the  first, 
the  most  generous  of  men  3 quick  to  encourage. 


slow  to  disparage,  and  ever  anxious  to  assert  the 
order  of  which  he  is  so  great  an  ornament.  That 
we  men  of  letters  are,  or  have  been,  invariably 
or  inseparably  attached  to  each  other,  it  may  not 
be  possible  to  say,  formerly  or  now  3 but  there 
cannot  now  be,  and  there  cannot  ever  have  been, 
among  the  followers  of  literature,  a man  so  en- 
tirely without  the  grudging  little  jealousies  that 
too  often  overshadow  its  brightness,  as  he  who 
now  occupies  that  chair.  Nor  was  there  ever  a 
time  when  such  reason  existed  for  bearing  testi- 
mony to  his  great  consideration  for  the  evils 
sometimes  unfortunately  attendant  upon  litera- 
ture, though  never  on  his  own  pursuit  of  it.  For, 
in  conjunction  with  some  other  gentlemen  now 
present,  I have  just  embarked  in  a design  with 
him  to  smooth  the  rugged  way  of  young  labourers 
both  in  literature  and  the  fine  arts,  and  to  soften, 
but  by  no  eleemosynary  means,  the  declining 
years  of  meritorious  age.  If  it  prosper,  as  I hope 
it  will,  and  as  I know  it  ought,  there  will  one 
day  in  England  be  an  honour  where  there  is 
now  a reproach  3 and  a future  race  of  men  of 
letters  will  gratefully  remember  that  it  originated 
in  the  sympathies,  and  was  made  practicable  by 
the  generosity,  of  Sir  Edward  Bulwer  Lytton.” 

The  design  nevertheless  did  not  prosper,  and 
both  the  great  writers  who  had  associated  them- 
selves with  it  are  now  passed  away.  Since  it 
first  was  mentioned  on  this  page.  Lord  Lytton 
has  himself  been  borne  to  the  Abbey  where 
Dickens  is  laid,  and  which  never  opened  to 
receive  a more  varied  genius,  a more  gallant 
spirit,  a man  more  constant  to  his  friends,  more 
true  to  any  cause  he  represented,  or  whose  name 
will  hereafter  be  found  entitled  to  a more 
honoured  place  in  the  history  of  his  time.  The 
Guild  design  failed  because  the  support  indis- 
pensable to  success  was  not,  as  Dickens  too 
sanguinely  hoped,  given  to  it  by  literary  men 
themselves.  But  one  part  of  his  prediction  may 
yet  have  fulfilment,  since  the  failure  has  made  it 
perhaps  even  more  rather  than  less  likely  that 
future  followers  of  literature  will  have  reason  to 
remember,  how  wise  and  well-directed  was  the 
unavailing  effort  to  enable  the  most  sensitive  of 
all  professions  to  receive  assistance  in  its  hour  of 
distress  without  the  loss  of  self-respect  or  dignity. 
How  high  Dickens  had  carried  his  hope  in  this 
respect,  and  to  what  depth  of  disappointment 
he  fell  at  its  collapse,  will  have  mention  on  a 
later  page. 

Lytton’s  comedy.  Not  so  Bad  as  We  Seem, 
was  played  for  the  first  time  at  Devonshire- 
house  on  the  i6th  of  May,  1851,  before  the 
Queen  and  Prince  and  as  large  an  audience  as 
places  could  be  found  for  3 the  farce  of  Mr. 


— p 

260  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DLCKENS. 


Niglituigale' s Diary  being  reserved  for  a second 
performance.  The  success  abundantly  realised 
expectation  ; and,  after  many  representations  at 
the  Hanover-square  Rooms  in  London,  strolling 
began  in  the  country,  and  was  continued  at 
intervals  for  considerable  portions  of  this  and 
the  following  year.  From  much  of  it,  I was 
myself  disabled  by  illness  and  occupation,  and 
substitutes  had  to  be  found ; but  to  this  I owe  a 
lively  and  characteristic  picture  of  Dickens  amid 
the  incidents  and  accidents  to  which  his  theatri- 
cal career  exposed  him,  which  may  be  taken 
from  the  closing  performances.  The  company 
carried  with  them,  it  should  be  said,  the  theatre 
constructed  for  Devonshire-house,  as  well  as  the 
admirable  scenes  which  Stanfield,  David  Roberts, 
Thomas  Grieve,  Telbin,  Absolon,  and  Louis 
Haghe  had  painted  as  their  generous  free- 
offerings  to  the  comedy ; of  which  the  representa- 
tions were  thus  rendered  irrespective  of  theatres 
or  their  managers,  and  took  place  in  the  large 
halls  or  concert-rooms  of  the  various  towns  and 
cities.  A design  for  the  card  of  membership, 
taken  from  an  incident  in  the  life  of  Defoe,  ex- 
pressed the  interest  felt  in  the  undertaking  by 
another  distinguished  artist,  Mr.  E.  M.  Ward. 

“ The  comedy,”  Dickens  wrote  from  Sunder- 
land on  the  29th  of  August,  1852,  “is  so  far 
improved  by  the  reductions  which  your  absence 
and  other  causes  have  imposed  on  us,  that  it 
acts  now  only  two  hours  and  twenty-five  minutes, 
all  waits  included,  and  goes  ‘ like  wildfire  ’ as 
Mr.  Tonson  says.  We  have  had  prodigious 
houses,  though  smaller  rooms  (as  to  their  actual 
size)  than  I had  hoped  for.  The  Duke  was  at 
Derby,  and  no  end  of  minor  radiances.  Into 
the  room  at  Newcastle  (where  Lord  Carlisle  was 
by  the  bye)  they  squeezed  six  hundred  people, 
at  twelve  and  sixpence,  into  a space  reasonably 
capable  of  holding  three  hundred.  Last  night, 
in  a hall  built  like  a theatre,  with  pit,  boxes,  and 
gallery,  we  had  about  twelve  hundred — I dare 
say  more.  They  began  with  a round  of  applause 
when  Coote’s  white  waistcoat  appeared  in  the 
orchestra,  and  wound  up  the  farce  with  three 
deafening  cheers.  I never  saw  such  good  fel- 
lows. Stanny  is  their  fellow-townsman ; was 
born  here  ; and  they  applauded  his  scene  as  if  it 
were  himself.  But  what  I suffered  from  a dread- 
ful anxiety  that  hung  over  me  all  the  time,  I can 
never  describe.  When  we  got  here  at  noon,  it 
appeared  that  the  hall  was  a perfectly  new  one, 
and  had  only  had  the  slates  put  upon  the  roof 
by  torchlight  over  night.  Farther,  that  the  pro- 
prietors of  some  opposition  rooms  had  declared 
the  building  to  be  unsafe,  and  that  there  was  a 
panic  in  the  town  about  it ; people  having  had 


their  money  back,  and  being  undecided  whether 
to  come  or  not,  and  all  kinds  of  such  horrors. 
I didn’t  know  what  to  do.  The  horrible  respon- 
sibility of  risking  an  accident  of  that  awful  nature 
seemed  to  rest  only  upon  me ; for  I had  only  to 
say  we  wouldn’t  act,  and  there  would  be  no 
chance  of  danger.  I was  afraid  to  take  Sloman 
into  council  lest  the  panic  should  infect  our  men. 
I asked  W.  what  he  thought,  and  he  consolingly 
observed  that  his  digestion  was  so  bad  that  death 
had  no  terrors  for  him  ! I went  and  looked  at 
the  place  : at  the  rafters,  walls,  pillars,  and  so 
forth ; and  fretted  myself  into  a belief  that  they 
really  were  slight ! To  crown  all,  there  was  an 
arched  iron  roof,  without  any  brackets  or  pillars, 
on  a new  principle ! The  only  comfort  I had 
was  in  stumbling  at  length  on  the  builder,  and 
finding  him  a plain  practical  north-countryman 
with  a foot  rule  in  his  pocket.  I took  him  aside, 
and  asked  him  should  we,  or  could  we,  prop  up 
any  weak  part  of  the  place  : especially  the  dress- 
ing-rooms, which  were  under  our  stage,  the 
weight  of  which  must  be  heavy  on  a new  floor, 
and  dripping  wet  walls.  He  told  me  there 
wasn’t  a stronger  building  in  the  world ; and 
that,  to  allay  the  apprehension,  they  had  opened 
it,  on  Thursday  night,  to  thousands  of  the 
working  people,  and  induced  them  to  sing,  and 
beat  with  their  feet,  and  make  every  possible 
trial  of  the  vibration.  Accordingly  there  was 
nothing  for  it  but  to  go  on.  I was  in  such  dread, 
however,  lest  a false  alarm  should  spring  up 
among  the  audience  and  occasion  a rush,  that  I 
kept  Catherine  and  Georgina  out  of  the  front. 
When  the  curtain  went  up  and  I saw  the  great 
sea  of  faces  rolling  up  to  the  roof,  I looked  here 
and  looked  there,  and  thought  I saw  the 
gallery  out  of  the  perpendicular,  and  fancied  the 
lights  in  the  ceiling  were  not  straight.  Rounds 
of  applause  were  perfect  agony  to  me,  I was  so 
afraid  of  their  effect  upon  the  building.  I was 
ready  all  night  to  rush  on  in  case  of  an  alarm — 
a false  alarm  was  my  main  dread — and  implore 
the  people  for  God’s  sake  to  sit  still.  I had  our 
great  farce-bell  rung  to  startle  Sir  Geoffrey  in- 
stead of  throwing  down  a piece  of  wood,  which 
might  have  raised  a sudden  apprehension.  I 
had  a palpitation  of  the  heart,  if  any  of  our 
people  stumbled  up  or  down  a stair.  I am  sure 
I never  acted  better,  but  the  anxiety  of  my  mind 
was  so  intense,  and  the  relief  at  last  so  great, 
that  I am  half-dead  to-day,  and  have  not  yet 
been  able  to  eat  or  drink  anything  or  to  stir  out 
of  my  room.  I shall  never  forget  it.  As  to  the 
short  time  we  had  for  getting  the  theatre  up ; as 
to  the  upsetting,  by  a runaway  pair  of  horses,  of 
one  of  the  vans  at  the  Newcastle  railway  station 


LAST  YEARS  IN  DEVONSHIRE  TERRACE.  261 


until  all  the  scenery  in  it,  every  atom  of  which  tuas 
I turned  over ; as  to  the  fatigue  of  our  carpenters, 

! who  have  now  been  up  four  nights,  and  who 
! were  lying  dead  asleep  in  the  entrances  last 
night ; I say  nothing,  after  the  other  gigantic 
nightmare,  except  that  Sloman’s  splendid  know- 
ledge of  his  business,  and  the  good  temper  and 
cheerfulness  of  all  the  workmen,  are  capital.  I 
mean  to  give  them  a supper  at  Liverpool,  and  j 
address  them  in  a neat  and  appropriate  speech. 
We  dine  at  two  to-day  (it  is  now  one)  and  go  to 
Sheffield  at  four,  arriving  there  at  about  ten.  I 
had  been  fresh  as  a daisy;  walked  from  Notting- 
ham to  Derby,  and  from  Newcastle  here;  but 
seem  to  have  had  my  nerves  crumpled  up  last 
night,  and  have  an  excruciating  headache. 
That’s  all  at  present.  I shall  never  be  able  to 
bear  the  smell  of  new  deal  and  fresh  mortar 
again  as  long  as  I live.” 

Manchester  and  Liverpool  closed  the  trip 
with  enormous  success  at  both  places;  and 
Sir  Edward  Lytton  was  present  at  a public  dinner 
rvhich  was  given  in  the  former  city,  Dickens’s 
brief  word  about  it  being  written  as  he  was  set- 
ting foot  in  the  train  that  was  to  bring  him  to 
London.  “ Bulwer  spoke  brilliantly  at  the 
Manchester  dinner,  and  his  earnestness  and  de- 
termination about  the  Guild  was  most  impres- 
sive. It  carried  everything  before  it.  They  are 
now  getting  up  annual  subscriptions,  and  will 
give  us  a revenue  to  begin  with.  I swear  I be- 
lieve that  people  to  be  the  greatest  in  the  world. 
At  Liverpool  I had  a Round  Robin  on  the  stage 
after  the  play  was  over,  a place  being  left  for 
your  signature,  and  as  I am  going  to  have  it 
framed.  I’ll  tell  Green  to  send  it  to  Lincoln’s- 
inn-fields.  You  have  no  idea  how  good  Ten- 
niel,  Topham,  and  Collins  have  been  in  what 
they  had  to  do.” 

These  names,  distinguished  in  art  and  letters, 
represent  additions  to  the  company  who  had  joined 
the  enterprise  ; and  the  last  of  them,  Mr.  Wilkie 
Collins,  became,  for  all  the  rest  of  the  life  of 
Dickens,  one  of  his  dearest  and  most  valued 
friends. 

' « 

VI. 

LAST  YEARS  IN  DEVONSHIRE  TERRACE. 

1848 — 1851. 

“C'  XCEPTING  always  the  haunts  and  associa- 
J-b  tions  of  his  childhood,  Dickens  had  no 
particular  sentiment  of  locality,  and  any  special 
regard  for  houses  he  had  lived  in  was  not  a 
thing  noticeable  in  him.  But  he  cared  most  for 
Life  of  Ch.vrles  Dickens,  18. 


Devonshire-terrace,  perhaps  for  the  bit  of  ground 
attached  to  it;  and  it  was  with  regret  he  suddenly 
discovered,  at  the  close  of  1847,  that  he  should 
have  to  resign  it  “ next  lady-day  three  years.  I 
had  thought  the  lease  two  years  more.”  To 
that  brief  remaining  time  belong  some  incidents 
of  which  I have  still  to  give  account ; and  I con- 
nect them  with  the  house  in  which  he  lived 
during  the  progress  of  what  is  generally  thought 
his  greatest  book,  and  of  what  I think  were  his 
happiest  years. 

We  had  never  had  such  intimate  confidences 
as  in  the  interval  since  his  return  from  Paris ; 
but  these  have  been  used  in  my  narrative  of  the 
childhood  and  boyish  experiences,  and  what  re- 
main are  incidental  only.  Of  the  fragment  of 
autobiography  there  also  given,  the  origin  has 
been  told  : but  the  intention  of  leaving  such  a 
record  had  been  also  in  his  mind  at  an  earlier 
date  [ante,  10);  and  it  was  the  very  depth  of 
our  interest  in  the  opening  of  his  fragment  that 
led  to  the  larger  design  in  which  it  became 
absorbed.  “ I hardly  know  why  I write  this,” 
was  his  own  comment  on  one  of  his  personal 
revelations,  “ but  the  more  than  friendship  which 
has  grown  between  us  seems  to  force  it  on  me  in 
my  present  mood.  We  shall  speak  of  it  all, 
you  and  I,  Heaven  grant,  wisely  and  wonder- 
ingly  many  and  many  a time  in  after  years.  In 
the  meanwhile  I am  more  at  rest  for  having 

opened  all  my  heart  and  mind  to  you 

This  day  eleven  years,  poor  dear  Mary  died.” 

That  was  written  on  the  seventh  of  May,  1848, 
but  another  sadness  impending  at  the  time  was 
taking  his  thoughts  still  farther  back ; to  when 
he  trotted  about  with  his  little  elder  sister  in  the 
small  garden  to  the  house  at  Portsea.  The  faint 
hope  for  her  which  Elliotson  had  given  him  in 
Paris  had  since  completely  broken  down  ; and  I 
was  to  hear,  in  less  than  two  months  after  the 
letter  just  quoted,  how  nearly  the  end  was  come. 
“ A change  took  place  in  poor  Fanny,”  he  wrote 
on  the  5th  of  July,  “about  the  middle  of  the  day 
yesterday,  which  took  me  out  there  last  night. 
Her  cough  suddenly  ceased  almost,  and,  strange 
to  say,  she  immediately  became  aware  of  her 
hopeless  state  ; to  which  she  resigned  herself, 
after  an  hour’s  unrest  and  struggle,  with  extraor- 
dinary sweetness  and  constancy.  The  irritability 
passed,  and  all  hope  faded  away;  though  only 
two  nights  before,  she  had  been  planning  for 
‘ after  Christmas.’  She  is  greatly  changed.  I 
had  a long  interview  with  her  to-day,  alone ; 
and  when  she  had  expressed  some  wishes  about 
the  funeral,  and  her  being  buried  in  uncon- 
secrated ground  ” (Mr.  Burnett’s  family  were 
dissenters),  “ I asked  her  whether  she  had  any 

426 


2()2  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


care  or  anxiety  in  the  world.  She  said  No,  none. 
It  was  hard  to  die  at  such  a time  of  life,  but  she 
\ had  no  alarm  whatever  in  the  prospect  of  the 
[ change  ; felt  sure  we  should  meet  again  in  a 
better  world;  and  although  they  had  said  she 
might  rally  for  a time,  did  not  really  wish  it. 
She  said  she  was  quite  calm  and  happy,  relied 
upon  the  mediation  of  Christ,  and  had  no  terror 
at  all.  She  had  worked  very  hard,  even  when  ill ; 
but  believed  that  was  in  her  nature,  and  neither 
regretted  nor  complained  of  it.  Burnett  had 
been  always  very  good  to  her ; they  had  never 
quarrelled ; she  was  sorry  to  think  of  his  going 
back  to  such  a lonely  home  ; and  was  distressed 
about  her  children,  but  not  painfully  so.  She 
showed  me  how  thin  and  worn  she  was  ; spoke 
about  an  invention  she  had  heard  of  that  she 
would  like  to  have  tried,  for  the  deformed  child’s 
back  ; called  to  my  remembrance  all  our  sister 
Letitia’s  patience  and  steadiness ; and,  though 
she  shed  tears  sometimes,  clearly  impressed 
upon  me  that  her  mind  was  made  up,  and  at 
rest.  I asked  her  very  often,  if  she  could  ever 
recall  anything  that  she  could  leave  to  my 
doing,  to  put  it  down,  or  mention  it  to  some- 
body if  I was  not  there ; and  she  said  she 
would,  but  she  firmly  believed  that  there  was 
nothing — nothing.  Her  husband  being  young, 
she  said,  and  her  children  kifants,  she  could 
not  help  thinking  sometimes,  that  it  would  be 
very  long  in  the  course  of  nature  before  they  were 
reunited  ; but  she  knew  that  was  a mere  human 
fancy,  and  could  have  no  reality  after  she  was 
dead.  Such  an  affecting  e.xhibition  of  strength 
and  tenderness,  in  all  that  early  decay,  is  quite 
indescribable.  I need  not  tell  you  how  it 
moved  me.  I cannot  look  round  upon  the  dear 
children  here,  without  some  misgiving  that  this 
sad  disease  will  not  perish  out  of  our  blood 
with  her ; but  I am  sure  I have  no  selfishness  in 
the  thought,  and  God  knows  how  small  the 
world  looks  to  one  who  comes  out  of  such  a 
sick-room  on  a bright  summer  day.  I don’t 
know  why  I write  this  before  going  to  bed.  I 
only  know  that  in  the  very  pity  and  grief  of  my 
heart,  I feel  as  if  it  were  doing  something.” 
After  not  many  weeks  she  died,  and  the  little 
child  who  was  her  last  anxiety  did  not  long  sur- 
vive her. 

In  all  the  later  part  of  the  year  Dickens’s 
thoughts  were  turning  much  to  the  form  his  next 
book  should  assume.  A suggestion  that  he 
should  write  it  in  the  first  person,  by  way  of 
change,  had  been  thrown  out  by  me,  which  he 
took  at  once  very  gravely  ; and  this,  with  other 
things,  though  as  yet  not  dreaming  of  any  public 
use  ot  his  early  personal  trials,  conspired  to 


bring  about  the  resolve  to  use  them.  His  de-  I 

termination  once  taken,  with  what  a singular  I 

truthfulness  he  contrived  to  blend  the  fact  with  i 

the  fiction  may  be  shown  by  a small  occurrence  i 

of  this  time.  It  has  been  inferred,  from  the 
vividness  of  the  boy-impressions  of  Yarmouth 
in  David’s  earliest  experiences,  that  the  place 
must  have  been  familiar  to  his  own  boyhood : 
but  the  truth  was  that  at  the  close  of  1848  he 
first  saw  that  celebrated  seaport.  One  of  its 
earlier  months  had  been  signalised  by  an  ad- 
venture in  which  Leech,  Lemon,  and  myself 
took  part  with  him,  when,  obtaining  horses  from  | 

Salisbury,  we  passed  the  whole  of  a March  day  | 

in  riding  over  every  part  of  the  Plain  ; visiting  j 

Stonehenge,  and  exploring  Hazlitt’s  “hut”  at 
Winterslow,  birthplace  of  some  of  his  finest 
essays ; altogether  with  so  brilliant  a success 
that  now  (13th  of  November)  he  proposed  to 
“ repeat  the  Salisbury  Plain  idea  in  a new  direc- 
tion in  mid-winter,  to  wit,  Blackgang  Chine  in 
the  Isle  of  Wight,  with  dark  winter  cliffs  and 
roaring  oceans.”  But  mid-winter  brought  with 
it  too  much  dreariness  of  its  own,  to  render  1 
these  stormy  accompaniments  to  it  very  palat- 
able ; and  on  the  last  day  of  the  year  lie  be- 
thought him  “ it  would  be  better  to  make  an  | 
outburst  to  some  old  cathedral  city  we  don’t 
know,  and  what  do  you  say  to  Norwich  and  j 
Stanfield-hall  ?”  Thither  accordingly  the  three  !' 
friends  went,  illness  at  the  last  disabling  me ; \ | 

and  of  the  result  I heard  (12th  of  January,  1849) 
that  Stanfield-hall,  the  scene  of  a recent  frightful 
tragedy,  had  nothing  attractive  unless  the  term 
might  be  applied  to  “ a murderous  look  that 
seemed  to  invite  such  a crime.  IVe  arrived,” 
continued  Dickens,  “ between  the  Hall  and 
Potass  farm,  as  the  search  was  going  on  for  the 
pistol  in  a manner  so  consummately  stupid,  that 
there  was  nothing  on  earth  to  prevent  any  of 
Rush’s  labourers  from  accepting  five  j)Ounds 
from  Rush  junior  to  find  the  weapon  and  give 
it  to  him.  Norwich,  a disappointment”  (one  | 
pleasant  face  “ transformeth  a city,”  but  he  was  | 1 
unable  yet  to  connect  it  with  our  delightful 
friend  Elwin) ; “ all  save  its  i)lace  of  execution,  ' 
which  we  found  fit  for  a gigantic  scoundrel’s  exit. 

But  the  success  of  the  trip,  for  me,  was  to  come. 
Yarmouth,  sir,  where  we  went  afterwards,  is  the 
strangest  j)lace  in  the  witle  world  : one  hundred 
and  forty-six  miles  of  hill-less  marsh  between  j 
it  and  London.  More  when  we  meet.  I sliall 
certainly  try  my  hand  at  it.”  1 le  made  it  the 
home  of  liis  “little  Em’ly.” 

Everything  now  was  taking  that  direction  with 
him  ; and  soon,  to  give  his  own  account  of  it, 
his  mind  was  upon  names  “running  like  a high 


LAST  YEARS  IN'  DEVONSILIRE  TERRACE. 


sea.”  Four  days  after  the  date  of  the  last- 
quoted  letter  (“  all  over  happily,  thank  God,  by 
I four  o’clock  this  morning”)  there  came  the  birth 
; of  his  eighth  child  and  sixth  son ; whom  at  first 
j he  meant  to  call  by  Oliver  Goldsmith’s  name, 
but  settled  afterwards  into  that  of  Henry  Field- 
ing ; and  to  whom  that  early  friend  Ainsworth 
who  had  first  made  us  known  to  each  other, 

' welcome  and  pleasant  companion  always,  was 
asked  to  be  godfather.  Telling  me  of  the  change 
in  the  name  of  the  little  fellow,  which  he  had 
made  in  a kind  of  homage  to  the  style  of  work 
he  ivas  now  so  bent  on  beginning,  he  added, 
“ What  should  you  think  of  this  for  a notion  of 
a character?  ‘ Yes,  that  is  very  true  ; but  now, 
JV/ials  /ns  motive  V I fancy  I could  make 
something  like  it  into  a kind  of  amusing  and 
more  innocent  Pecksniff.  ‘Well  now,  yes — no 
doubt  that  was  a fine  thing  to  do  ! But  now, 
stop  a moment,  let  us  see — W/iat's  his  motive  / ’ ” 
Here  again  was  but  one  of  the  many  outward 
signs  of  fancy  and  fertility  that  accompanied  the 
outset  of  all  his  more  important  books ; though, 
as  in  their  cases  also,  other  moods  of  the  mind 
incident  to  such  beginnings  were  less  favourable. 
“ Deepest  despondency,  as  usual,  in  commenc- 
ing, besets  me;”  is  the  opening  of  the  letter  in 
which  he  speaks  of  what  of  course  was  always 
•one  of  his  first  anxieties,  the  selection  of  a 
name.  In  this  particular  instance  he  had  been 
I undergoing  doubts  and  misgivings  to  more  than 
the  usual  degree.  It  was  not  until  the  23rd  of 
February  he  got  to  anything  like  the  shape  of 
a feasible  title.  “ I should  like  to  know  how 
the  enclosed  (one  of  those  I have  been  thinking 
of)  strikes  you,  on  a first  acquaintance  with  it. 
It  is  odd,  I think,  and  new  : but  it  may  have 
A’s  difficulty  of  being  ‘ too  comic,  my  boy.’  I 
suppose  I should  have  to  add,  though,  by  way 
■of  motto,  ‘ And  in  short  it  led  to  the  very  Mag’s 
Diversions.  Old  Saymg.'  Or  would  it  be  better, 
there  being  equal  authority  for  either,  ‘ And  in 
short  they  all  played  Mag’s  Diversions.  Old 
Saying  ? ’ ” 

“ Mag's  Diversions. 

Being  the  personal  history  of 
ilR.  Thomas  Mag  the  Younger, 

Of  Bhmderstone  House.” 

This  was  hardly  satisfactory,  I thought ; and 
it  soon  became  apparent  that  he  thought  so  too, 
although  within  the  next  three  days  I had  it  in 
three  other  forms.  “ Mag's  Diversions,  being 
the  Personal  History,  Adventures,  Experience, 
and  Observation  of  Mr.  David  Mag  the  Younger, 
of  Blunderstone  House.”  The  second  omitted 
Adventures,  and  called  his  hero  Mr.  David  Mag 
the  Younger,  of  Copperfield  House.  The  third 


263 


made  nearer  approach  to  what  the  destinies 
were  leading  him  to,  and  transformed  Mr.  David 
Mag  into  Mr.  David  Copperfield  the  Younger 
and  his  great-aunt  Margaret ; retaining  still  as 
his  leading  title,  Mag’s  Diversions.  It  is  singular 
that  it  should  never  have  occurred  to  him,  while 
the  name  was  thus  strangely  as  by  accident 
bringing  itself  together,  that  the  initials  were 
but  his  own  reversed.  Pie  was  much  startled 
when  I pointed  this  out,  and  protested  it  was 
just  in  keeping  with  the  fates  and  chances  which 
were  always  befalling  him.  “ Why  else,”  he 
said,  “ should  I so  obstinately  have  kept  to  that 
name  when  once  it  turned  up  ? ” 

It  w'as  quite  true  that  he  did  so,  as  I had 
curious  proof  following  close  upon  the  heels  of 
his  third  proposal.  “ I wish,”  he  wrote  on  the 
26th  of  February,  “you  would  look  over  care- 
fully the  titles  now  enclosed,  and  tell  me  to  which 
you  most  incline.  You  will  see  that  they  give 
up  Mag  altogether,  and  refer  exclusively  to  one 
name — that  which  I last  sent  you.  I doubt 
whether  I could,  on  the  whole,  get  a better 
name. 

“I.  hlie  Copperfield  Disclosures.  Being  the  personal 
history,  experience,  and  observation,  of  Mr.  David 
Copperfield  the  Younger,  of  Blunderstone  House. 

“ 2.  The  Copperfield  Records.  Being  the  personal  his- 
tory, experience,  and  observation,  of  Mr.  David 
Copperfield  the  Younger,  of  Copperfield  Cottage. 
“3.  The  Last  Living  Speech  and  Confession  of  David 
Copperfield,  fimior,  of  Blunderstone  Lodge,  who 
was  never  executed  at  the  Old  Bailey.  Being  his 
personal  history  found  among  his  papers. 

“ 4.  The  Copperfield  Survey  of  the  World  as  it  Rolled. 
Being  the  personal  history,  experience,  and  observa- 
tion, of  David  Copperfield  the  Younger,  of  Blunder- 
stone Rookery. 

“ 5.  The  Last  Will  and  Testament  of  Mr.  David  Cop- 
perfield. Being  his  personal  history  left  as  a legacy. 
“ 6.  Copperfield,  Complete.  Being  the  wliole  personal 
history  and  experience  of  Mr.  David  Copperfield  of 
Blunderstone  House,  which  he  never  meant  to  be 
published  on  any  account. 

Or,  the  opening  words  of  No.  6 might  be  Copper- 
field's  Entire;  and  The  Copperfield  Confessions 
might  open  Nos.  i and  2.  Now,  what  say 

YOU  ? ” 

What  I said  is  to  be  inferred  from  what  he 
wrote  back  on  the  28th.  “ The  Survey  has  been 

my  favourite  from  the  first.  Kate  picked  it  out 
from  the  rest,  without  my  saying  anything  about 
it.  Georgy  too.  You  hit  upon  it,  on  the  first 
glance.  Therefore  I have  no  doubt  that  it  is 
indisputably  the  best  title ; and  I will  stick  to 
it.”  There  was  a change  nevertheless.  His 
completion  of  the  second  chapter  defined  to 
himself,  more  clearly  than  before,  the  character 
of  the  book ; and  the  propriety  of  rejecting  every- 
thing not  strictly  personal  from  the  name  given 


264 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


to  it.  The  words  proposed,  therefore,  became 
ultimately  these  only  : “The  Personal  History, 
Adventures,  Experience,  and  Observation  of 
David  Copperfield  the  Younger,  of  Blunderstone 
Rookery,  which  he  never  meant  to  be  published 
on  any  account.”  And  the  letter  which  told  me 
that  with  this  name  it  was  finally  to  be  launched 
on  the  first  of  May,  told  me  also  (19th  April) 
the  difficulties  that  still  beset  him  at  the  opening. 
“ My  hand  is  out  in  the  matter  of  Copperfield. 
To-day  and  yesterday  J have  done  nothing. 


Though  I kuow  what  I want  to  do,  I am  lumber- 
ing on  like  a stage-waggon.  I can’t  even  dine 
at  the  Temple  to-day,  I feel  it  so  important  to 
stick  at  it  this  evening,  and  make  some  head.  { 
am  quite  aground ; quite  a literary  Benedict,  as 
he  appeared  when  his  heels  wouldn’t  stay  upon 
the  carpet ; and  the  long  Copperfieldian  per- 
spective looks  snoAvy  and  thick,  this  fine  morn- 
ing.” The  allusion  was  to  a dinner  at  his  house 
the  night  before ; Avhen  not  only  Rogers  had  ta 
be  borne  out,  having  fallen  sick  at  the  table, 


OFF  YARMOUTH. 


but,  as  we  rose  soon  after  to  quit  the  dining- 
room, Mr.  Jules  Benedict  had  quite  suddenly 
followed  the  poet’s  lead,  and  fallen  prostrate  on 
the  carpet  in  the  midst  of  us.  Amid  the  general 
consternation  there  seemed  a want  of  proper 
attendance  on  the  sick  : the  distinguished  musi- 
cian faring  in  this  respect  hardly  so  well  as  the 
famous  bard,  by  whose  i)rolracted  sufferings  in 
the  library,  whither  he  had  been  removed,  the 
sanitary  help  available  on  the  establishment  was 
still  absorbed  : and  as  Dickens  had  been  eloquent 


during  dinner  on  the  atrocities  of  a pauper-fann- 
ing case  at  Tooting  which  was  then  exciting  a 
fury  of  indignation,  Fonblampie  now  declared 
him  to  be  no  better  himself  than  a second  Drouet, 
reducing  his  guests  to  a lamentable  state  by  the 
food  he  had  given  them,  and  aggravating  their 
sad  condition  by  absence  of  all  j)roper  nursing. 
'I'he  joke  was  well  kept  up  by  Quin  and  Edwin 
l.andsccr.  Lord  Strangford  joining  in  with  a 
tragic  syinjiathy  for  his  friend  the  jioet;  and  the 
ban(|uct  so  dolefully  intemiptcd  ended  in  up- 


LAST  YEARS  IN  DEVONSHIRE  TERRACE, 


265 


roarious  mirth.  For  nothing  really  serious  had 
j happened.  Benedict  went  laughing  away  with 
his  wife,  and  I helped  Rogers  on  with  his  over- 
shoes for  his  usual  night-walk  home.  “ Do  you 
know  how  many  waistcoats  1 wear  ? ” asked  the 
poet  of  me,  as  1 was  doing  him  this  service.  I 
professed  my  inability  to  guess.  “ Five  ! ” he 
said:  “and  here  they  are  ! ” Upon  which  he 
opened  them,  in  the  manner  of  the  gravedigger 
in  Hamlet,  and  showed  me  every  one. 

That  dinner  was  in  the  April  of  1849, 
among  others  present  were  Mrs.  Procter  and 
! ]\Irs.  Macready,  dear  and  familiar  names  always 
j in  his  house.  No  swifter  or  surer  perception 
j .than  Dickens’s  for  what  was  solid  and  beautiful 
I in  character  ; he  rated  it  higher  than  intellectual 
effort ; and  the  same  lofty  place,  first  in  his  af- 
I fection  and  respect,  would  have  been  Macready’s 
and  Procter’s,  if  the  one  had  not  been  the  greatest 
of  actors,  and  the  other  a poet  as  genuine  as  old 
Fletcher  or  Beaumont.  There  were  present  at 
j this  dinner  also  the  American  minister  and  Mrs. 
Bancroft  (it  was  the  year  of  that  visit  of  Macready 
to  America,  which  ended  in  the  disastrous  Forrest 
I riots) ; and  it  had  among  its  guests  Lady  Graham, 

I the  wife  of  Sir  James  Graham,  and  sister  of  Tom 
j Sheridan’s  wife,  than  whom  not  even  the  wit  and 
i beauty  of  her  nieces,  Mrs.  Norton  and  Lady 
j Dufferin,  did  greater  justice  to  the  brilliant  family 
! of  the.  Sheridans  ; so  many  of  whose  members, 
and  these  three  above  all,  Dickens  prized  among 
his  friends.  The  table  that  day  will  be  “ full  ” 
if  I add  the  celebrated  singer  Miss  Catherine 
Hayes,  and  her  homely  good-natured  Irish 
j mother,  who  startled  us  all  very  much  by  com- 
plimenting Mrs.  Dickens  on  her  having  had  for 
I her  father  so  clever  a painter  as  Mr.  Hogarth, 
j Others  familiar  to  Devonshire-terrace  in  these 
years  will  be  indicated  if  I name  an  earlier  dinner 
(3rd  of  January),  for  the  “christening”  of  the 
Haimted  Man,  when,  besides  Lemons,  Evanses, 
Leeches,  Bradburys,  and  Stanfields,  there  were 
i present  Tenniel,  Topham,  Stone,  Robert  Bell, 
and  Thomas  Beard.  Next  month  (24th  of  March) 
I met  at  his  table.  Lord  and  Lady  Lovelace  ; 
Milner  Gibson,  Mowbray  Morris,  Horace  Twiss, 
and  their  wives;  Lady  Molesworth  and  her 
daughter  (Mrs.  Ford) ; John  Hardwick,  Charles 
Babbage,  and  Doctor  Locock.  That  distin- 
guished physician  had  attended  the  poor  girl, 
Miss  Abercrombie,  whose  death  by  strychnine 
led  to  the  exposure  of  Wainewright’s  murders ; 
and  the  opinion  he  had  formed  of  her  chances 
of  recovery,  the  external  indications  of  that  poi- 
son being  then  but  imperfectly  known,  was  first 
shaken,  he  told  me,  by  the  gloomy  and  despair- 
ing cries  of  the  old  family  nurse,  that  her  mother 


and  her  uncle  h.ad  died  exactly  so  ! These,  it 
was  afterwards  proved,  had  been  among  the 
murderer’s  former  victims.  The  Lovelaces  were 
frequent  guests  after  the  return  from  Italy,  Sir 
George  Crawford,  so  friendly  in  Genoa,  having 
married  Lord  Lovelace’s  sister ; and  few  had  a 
greater  warmth  of  admiration  for  Dickens  than 
Lord  Byron’s  “ Ada,”  on  whom  Paul  Dombey’s 
death  laid  a strange  fascination.  They  were 
again  at  a dinner  got  up  in  the  following  year  for 
Scribe  and  the  composer  Halevy,  who  had  come 
over  to  bring  out  the  Tempest  at  Her  Majesty’s 
theatre,  then  managed  by  Mr.  Lumley,  who  with 
M.  Van  de  Weyer,  Mrs.  Gore  and  her  daughter, 
the  Hogarths,  and  I think  the  fine  French  co- 
median, Samson;  were  also  amongst  those  pre- 
sent. Earlier  that  year  there  were  gathered  at 
his  dinner-table  the  John  Delanes,  Isambard 
Brunels,  Thomas  Longmans  (friends  since  the 
earliest  Broadstairs  days,  and  special  favourites 
always).  Lord  Mulgrave,  and  Lord  Carlisle,  with 
all  of  whom  his  intercourse  was  intimate  and 
frequent,  and  became  especially  so  with  Delane 
in  later  years.  Lord  Carlisle  amused  us  that 
night,  I remember,  by  repeating  what  the  good 
old  Brougham  had  said  to  him  of  “ those  Punch 
people,”  expressing  what  was  really  his  fixed 
belief.  “ They  never  get  my  face,  and  are 
obliged  ” (which,  like  Pope,  he  always  pro- 
nounced obleegedj  “to  put  up  with  my  plaid 
trousers  ! ” Of  Lord  Mulgrave,  pleasantly  asso- 
ciated with  the  first  American  experiences,  let 
me  add  that  he  now  went  with  us  to  several  out- 
lying places  of  amusement  of  which  he  wished 
to  acquire  some  knowledge,  and  which  Dickens 
knew  better  than  any  man ; small  theatres, 
saloons,  and  gardens  in  city  or  borough,  to  which 
the  Eagle  and  Britannia  were  as  palaces  ; and  I 
think  he  was  of  the  party  one  famous  night  in 
the  summer  of  1849  (29th  of  June),  when  with 
Talfourd,  Edwin  Landseer,  and  Stanfield  w'e 
went  to  the  Battle  of  Waterloo  at  Vauxhall,  and 
were  astounded  to  see  pass  in  immediately  before 
us,  in  a bright  white  overcoat,  the  great  Duke 
himself.  Lady  Douro  on  his  arm,  the  little  Ladies 
Ramsay  by  his  side,  and  everybody  cheering 
and  clearing  the  way  before  him.  That  the  old 
hero  enjoyed  it  all,  there  could  be  no  doubt,  and 
he  made  no  secret  of  his  delight  in  “ Young  Her- 
nandez ; ” but  the  “ Battle  ” was  undeniably  tedi- 
ous, and  it  was  impossible  not  to  sympathize  with 
the  repeatedly  and  very  audibly  expressed  wish 
of  Talfourd,  that  “the  Prussians  w'ould  come  up.” 
The  preceding  month  was  that  of  the  start  of 
David  Coppcrfield,  and  to  one  more  dinner  (on 
the  12th)  I may  especially  refer  to  those  who 
were  present  at  it.  Carlyle  and  Mrs.  Carlyle 


2 66  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


came,  Thackeray  and  Rogers,  Mrs.  Gaskell  and 
Kenyon,  Jerrold  and  Hablot  Browne,  with  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Tagart ; and  it  was  a delight  to  see 
the  enjoyment  of  Dickens  at  Carlyle’s  laughing 
reply  to  questions  about  his  health,  that  he  was, 
in  the  language  of  Mr.  Peggotty’s  housekeeper,’ 
a lorn  lone  creature  and  everything  went  con-| 
trairy  with  him.  Things  were  not  likely  to  go 
better  with  him,  I thought,  as  I saw  the  great 
writer, — kindest  as  well  as  wisest  of  men,  but  not 
very  patient  under  sentimental  philosophies, — 
seated  next  the  good  Mr.  Tagart,  who  soon  was 
heard  launching  at  him  various  metaphysical 
questions  in  regard  to  heaven  and  such  like ; 
and  the  relief  was  great  when  Thackeray  intro- 
duced, with  a quaint  whimsicality,  a story  which 
he  and  I had  heard  Macready  relate  in  talking 
to  us  about  his  boyish  days,  of  a country  actor 
who  had  supported  himself  for  six  months  on 
his  judicious  treatment  of  the  “tag”  to  the 
Castle  Spectre.  In  the  original  it  stands  that 
you  are  to  do  away  with  suspicion,  banish  vile 
mistrust,  and,  almost  in  the  words  we  had  just 
heard  from  the  minister  to  the  philosopher, 
“ Believe  there  is  a heaven  nor  Doubt  that 
heaven  is  just  !”  in  place  of  which  Macready’s 
friend,  observing  that  the  drop  fell  for  the  most 
part  quite  coldly,  substituted  one  night  the  more 
telling  appeal,  “ And  give  us  your  Applause,  for 
that  IS  ALWAYS  JUST  !”  which  brought  down  the 
house  with  rapture. 

This  chapter  would  far  outrun  its  limits  if  I 
spoke  of  other  as  pleasant  gatherings  under 
Dickens’s  roof  during  the  years  which  I am  now 
more  particularly  describing;  when,  besides  the 
dinners,  the  musical  enjoyments  and  dancings, 
as  his  children  became  able  to  take  part  in  them, 
were  incessant.  “ Remember  that  for  my  Bio- 
graphy ! ” he  said  to  me  gravely  on  twelfth-day 
in  1849,  after  telling  me  what  he  had  done  the 
night  before;  and  as  gravely  I now  redeem  my 
laughing  promise  that  1 would.  Little  Mary  and- 
her  sister  Kate  had  taken  much  pains  to  teach 
their  father  the  polka,  that  he  might  dance  it 
with  them  at  their  brother’s  birthday  festivity 
(held  this  year  on  the  7th,  as  the  6th  was  a 
Sunday)  ; and  in  the  middle  of  the  previous 
night  as  he  lay  in  bed,  the  fear  had  fallen  on  him 
suddenly  that  the  step  was  forgotten,  and  then 
and  there,  in  that  wintry  dark  cold  night,  he  got 
out  of  bed  to  practise  it.  Anything  more  cha- 
racteristic could  hardly  be  told,  unless  1 were 
able  to  show  him  dancing  it  afterwards,  and 
excelling  the  youngest  performer  in  untiring 
vigour  and  vivacity.  There  was  no  one  who 
aiiproachcd  him  on  these  occasions  excepting 
only  our  attached  friend  Captain  Marryat,  who 


had  a frantic  delight  in  dancing,  especially  with 
children,  of  whom  and  whose  enjoyments  he  was 
as  fond  as  it  became  so  thoroughly  good  hearted 
a man  to  be.  His  name  would  have  stood  first 
among  those  I have  been  recalling,  as  he  was 
among  the  first  in  Dickens’s  liking ; but  in  the 
autumn  of  1848  he  had  unexpectedly  passed 
away.  Other  names  however  still  reproach  me 
for  omission  as  my  memory  goes  back.  With 
Marryat’s  on  a former  page  of  this  book  stands 
that  of  Monckton  Milnes,  familiar  with  Dickens 
over  all  the  period  since,  and  still  more  prominent 
in  Tavistocic-house  days  when  with  Lady  Hough- 
ton he  brought  fresh  claims  to  my  friend’s  admira- 
tion and  regard.  Of  Bulwer  Lytton’s  frequent 
presence  in  all  his  houses,  and  of  Dickens’s  ad- 
miration for  him  as  one  of  the  supreme  masters 
in  his  art,  so  unswerving  and  so  often  publicly 
declared,  it  would  be  needless  again  to  speak. 
Nor  shall  I dwell  upon  his  interchange  of  hos- 
pitalities with  distinguished  men  in  the  two  great 
professions  so  closely  allied  to  literature  and  its 
followers ; Denmans,  Pollocks,  Campbells,  and 
Chittys  ; Watsons,  South  wood  Smiths,  Lococks, 
and  Elliotsons.  To  Alfred  Tennyson,  through 
all  the  friendly  and  familiar  days  I am  describ- 
ing, he  gave  full  allegiance  and  honoured  wel- 
come. Tom  Taylor  was  often  with  him  ; and 
there  was  a charm  for  him  I should  find  it  diffi- 
cult to  exaggerate  in  Lord  Dudley  Stuart’s  gentle- 
yet  noble  character,  his  refined  intelligence  and 
generous  public  life,  expressed  so  perfectly  in 
his  chivalrous  face.  Incomplete  indeed  would 
be  the  list  if  I did  not  add  to  it  the  frank  and 
hearty  Lord  Nugent,  who  had  so  much  of  his 
grandfather,  Coldsmith’s  friend,  in  his  lettered 
tastes  and  jovial  enjoyments.  Nor  should  I 
forget  occasional  days  with  dear  old  Charles 
Kemble  and  one  or  other  of  his  daughters  ; with 
Alexander  Dyce ; and  with  Harness  and  his 
sister,  or  his  niece  and  her  husband,  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Archdale ; made  especially  pleasant  by  talk 
about  great  days  of  the  stage.  It  was  something 
to  hear  Kemble  on  his  sister’s  Mrs.  Beverley ; 
or  to  see  Harness  and  Dyce  exultant  in  recol- 
lecting her  Volumnia.  The  enchantment  of  the 
Mrs.  Beverley,  her  brother  would  delightfully 
illustrate  by  imitation  of  her  manner  of  restrain- 
ing Beverley’s  intemperance  to  their  only  friend, 
“ You  are  too  busy,  sir  !”  when  she  quietly  came 
down  the  stage  from  a table  at  which  she  had 
seemed  to  be  occupying  herself,  laid  her  hand 
softly  on  her  husband’s  arm,  and  in  a gentle 
half-whisper  “No,  not  too  busy;  mistaken  jicr- 
haps ; but — ” not  only  stayetl  his  temper  but 
reminded  him  of  obligations  forgotten  in  the 
heat  of  it.  Dp  to  whore  the  tragic  terror  began, 


ZAST  YEARS  IN  DEVONSHIRE  TERRACE. 


267 


our  friend  told  us,  there  was  nothing  but  this 
composed  domestic  sweetness,  expressed  even 
in  the  simplicity  and  neat  arrangement  of  her 
dress,  her  cap  with  the  strait  band,  and  her  hair 
gathered  up  underneath  3 but  all  changing  when 
the  passion  I/I  begin ; one  single  disordered 
lock  escaping  at  the  first  outbreak,  and,  in  the 
final  madness,  all  of  it  streaming  dishevelled 
down  her  beautiful  face.  Kemble  made  no 
secret  of  his  belief  that  his  sister  had  the  highest 
genius  of  the  two  3 but  he  spoke  with  rapture  of 
“John’s”  Macbeth  and  parts  of  his  Othello 3 
comparing  his  “ Farewell  the  tranquil  mind  ” to 
the  running  down  of  a clock,  an  image  which  he 
did  not  know  that  Hazlitt  had  applied  to  the 
delivery  of  “ To-morrow  and  to-morrow,”  in  the 
other  tragedy.  In  all  this  Harness  seemed  to 
agree  3 and  I thought  a distinction  was  not  ill 
13ut  by  him,  on  the  night  of  which  I speak,  in 
his  remark  that  the  nature  in  Kemble’s  acting 
only  supplemented  his  magnificent  art,  whereas, 
though  the  artist  was  not  less  supreme  in  his 
sister,  it  was  on  nature  she  most  relied,  bringing 
up  the  other  power  only  to  the  aid  of  it.  “ It 
was  in  another  sense  like  your  writing,”  said 
Harness  to  Dickens,  “ the  commonest  natural 
feelings  made  great,  even  when  not  rendered 
more  refined  by  art.”  Her  Constance  would 
have  been  fishwify,  he  declared,  if  its  wonderful 
truth  had  not  overborne  every  other  feeling  3 and 
her  Volumnia  escaped  being  vulgar  only  by  being 
so  excessively  grand.  But  it  was  jtist  what  was 
so  called  “ vulgarity  ” that  made  its  passionate 
appeal  to  the  vulgar  in  a better  meaning  of  the 
word.  When  she  first  entered.  Harness  said, 
swaying  and  surging  from  side  to  side  with  every 
movement  of  the  Roman  crowd  itself,  as  it  went 
out  and  returned  in  confusion,  she  so  absorbed 
her  son  into  herself  as  she  looked  at  him,  so 
swelled  and  amplified  in  her  pride  and  glory  for 
him,  that  “ the  people  in  the  pit  blubbered  all 
round,”  and  he  could  no  more  help  it  than  the 
rest. 

There  are  yet  some  other  names  that  should 
have  2)lace  in  these  rambling  recollections, 
though  I by  no  means  affect  to  remember  all. 
One  Sunday  evening  Mazzini  made  memorable 
by  taking  us  to  see  the  school  he  had  established 
in  Clerkenwell  for  the  Italian  organ-boys.  This 
was  after  dining  with  Dickens,  who  had  been 
brought  into  personal  intercourse  with  the  great 
Italian  by  having  given  money  to  a begging  im- 
postor who  made  unauthorized  use  of  his  name. 
Edinburgh  friends  made  him  regular  visits  in 
the  spring  time : not  Jeffrey  and  his  family 
alone,  but  sheriff  Gordon  and  his,  with  whom 
he  was  not  less  intimate,  Lord  Murray  and  his 


wife.  Sir  William  Allan  and  his  niece,  Lord 
Robertson  with  his  wonderful  Scotch  mimicries, 
and  Peter  Fraser  with  his  enchanting  Scotch 
songs  3 our  excellent  friend  Liston  the  surgeon, 
until  his  fatal  illness  came  in  December  1848, 
being  seldom  absent  from  those  assembled  to 
bid  such  visitors  welcome.  Allan’s  name  may 
remind  me  of  other  artists  often  at  his  house, 
Eastlakes,  Leslies,  Friths,  and  Wards,  besides 
those  who  have  had  frequent  mention,  and  among 
whom  I should  have  included  Charles  as  well 
as  Edwin  Landseer,  and  William  Boxall.  Nor 
should  I drop  from  this  section  of  his  friends, 
than  whom  none  were  more  attractive  to  him, 
such  celebrated  names  in  the  sister  arts  as  those 
of  Miss  Helen  Faucit,  an  actress  worthily  asso- 
ciated with  the  brightest  days  of  our  friend 
Macready’s  managements,  Mr.  Sims  Reeves, 
Mr.  John  Parry,  Mr.  Phelps,  Mr.  Webster,  Mr. 
Harley,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Keeley,  Mr.  Whitworth, 
and  Miss  Dolby,  Mr.  George  Henry  Lewes  he 
had  an  old  and  great  regard  for  3 among  other 
men  of  letters  should  not  be  forgotten  the  cor- 
dial Thomas  Ingoldsby,  and  many-sided  true- 
hearted Charles  Knight  3 Mr.  R.  H.  Horne  and 
his  wife  were  frequent  visitors  both  in  London 
and  at  seaside  holidays  3 and  I have  met  at  his 
table  Mr.  and  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall.  There  were  the 
Duff  Gordons  too,  the  Lyells,  and,  very  old 
friends  of  us  both,  the  Emerson  Tennents  3 
there  was  the  good  George  Raymond  3 Mr. 
Frank  Beard  and  his  wife  3 the  Porter  Smiths, 
valued  for  Macready’s  sake  as  well  as  their 
own  3 Mr.  and  Mrs.  Charles  Black,  near  con- 
nections by  marriage  of  George  Cattermole,  with 
whom  there  was  intimate  intercourse  both  before 
and  during  the  residence  in  Italy  3 Mr.  T.  J. 
Thompson,  brother  of  Mrs.  Smithson  formerly 
named,  and  his  wife,  whose  sister  Frederick 
Dickens  married  3 Mr.  Mitton,  his  own  early 
companion  3 and  Mrs.  Torrens,  who  had  played 
with  the  amateurs  in  Canada.  These  are  all  in 
my  memory  so  connected  with  Devonshire- 
terrace,  as  friends  or  familiar  acquaintance,  that 
they  claim  this  word  before  leaving  it  3 and 
visitors  from  America,  I may  remark,  had 
always  a grateful  reception.  Of  the  Bancrofts 
mention  has  been  made,  and  with  them  should 
be  coupled  the  Abbot  Lawrences,  Prescott, 
Hillard,  George  Curtis,  and  Felton’s  brother. 
Felton  himself  did  not  visit  England  until  the 
Tavistock-house  time.  In  1847  there  was  a de- 
lightful day  with  the  Goldens  and  the  Wilkses, 
relatives  by  marriage  of  Jeffrey  3 in  the  following 
year,  I think  at  my  rooms  because  of  some 
accident  that  closed  Devonshire-terrace  that  day 
(25th  of  April),  Dickens,  Carlyle,  and  myself, 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DLCKENS. 


268 


I foregathered  with  the  admirable  Emerson ; and 
I M.  Van  de  Weyer  will  remember  a dinner  where 
he  took  joyous  part  with  Dickens  in  running 
; down  a phrase  which  the  learned  in  books,  Mr. 

{ Cogswell,  on  a mission  here  for  the  Astor 

1 library,  had  startled  us  by  denouncing  as  an 
! uncouth  Scotch  barbarism — open  up.  You  found 
it  constantly  in  Hume,  he  said,  but  hardly  any- 
where else ; and  he  defied  us  to  find  it  more 
than  once  through  the  whole  of  the  volumes  of 
Gibbon.  Upon  this,  after  brief  wonder  and 
doubt,  we  all  thought  it  best  to  take  part  in  a 
general  assault  upon  open  up,  by  invention  of 
phrases  on  the  same  plan  that  should  show  it  in 
I exaggerated  burlesque,  and  support  Mr.  Cogs- 
I well’s  indictment.  Then  came  a struggle  who 
! should  carry  the  absurdity  farthest ; and  the 
victory  remained  with  M.  Van  de  Weyer  until 
Dickens  surpassed  even  him,  and  “ opened  up” 

\ depths  of  almost  frenzied  absurdity  that  would 
[ have  delighted  the  heart  of  Leigh  Hunt.  It  will 
introduce  the  last  and  not  least  honoured  name 
into  my  list  of  his  acquaintance  and  friends,  if  I 
mention  his  amusing  little  interruption  one  day 
to  Professor  Owen’s  description  of  a telescope 
of  huge  dimensions  built  by  an  enterprising 
clergyman  who  had  taken  to  the  study  of  the 
stars ; and  who  was  eager,  said  Owen,  to  see 
' farther  into  heaven — he  was  going  to  say,  than 
Ivord  Rosse ; if  Dickens  had  not  drily  inter- 
posed, “ than  his  professional  studies  had 
enabled  him  to  penetrate.” 

Some  incidents  that  belong  specially  to  the 
three  years  that  closed  his  residence  in  the  home 
thus  associated  with  not  the  least  interesting 
part  of  his  career,  will  farther  show  what  now 
were  his  occupations  and  ways  of  life.  In  the 
summer  of  1849  came  up  from  Broadstairs  to 
attend  a Mansion-house  dinner,  which  the  lord 
mayor  of  that  day  had  been  moved  by  a laud- 
able ambition  to  give  to  “ literature  and  art,” 
which  he  supposed  would  be  adequately  repre- 
sented by  the  Royal  Academy,  the  contributors 
to  Ihuch,  Dickens,  and  one  or  two  newspaper 
men.  On  the  whole  the  result  was  not  cheer- 
ing; the  worthy  chief  magistrate,  no  doubt  quite 
undesignedly,  expressing  too  much  surprise  at 
the  unaccustomed  faces  around  him  to  be  alto- 
gether complimentary.  In  general  (this  was  the 
tone)  we  are  in  the  habit  of  having  princes, 
dukes,  ministers,  and  what  not  for  our  guests, 
but  what  a delight,  all  the  greater  for  being 
unusual,  to  see  gentlemen  like  you!  In  other 
words,  what  could  possibly  be  j)leasanter  than 
for  ])eople  satiated  with  greatness  to  get  for  a 
while  by  way  of  change  into  the  butler’s  pantry? 
'Hiis  in  substance  was  Dickens’s  account  to  me 


next  day,  and  his  reason  for  having  bee)!  very 
careful  in  his  acknowledgment  of  the  toast  of 
“the  Novelists.”  He  was  nettled  not  a little 
therefore  by  a jesting  allusion  to  himself  in  the 
Daily  Nervs  in  connection  with  the  proceedings, 
and  asked  me  to  forward  a remonstrance. 
Having  a strong  dislike  to  all  such  displays  of 
sensitiveness,  I suppressed  the  letter ; but  it  is 
perhaps  worth  ])iinting  now.  Its  date  is  Broad- 
stairs, Wednesday  nth  of  July  1849.  have 
no  other  interest  in,  or  concern  with,  a most 
facetious  article  on  last  Saturday’s  dinner  at  the 
Mansion-house,  which  appeared  in  your  paper 
of  yesterday,  and  found  its  way  here  to-day, 
than  that  it  misrepresents  me  in  what  I said  on 
the  occasion.  If  you  should  not  think  it  at  all 
damaging  to  the  wit  of  that  satire  to  stare  what 
I did  say,  I shall  be  much  obliged  to  you.  It 
was  this That  I considered  the  compli- 

ment of  a recognition  of  Literature  by  the 
citizens  of  London  the  more  acceptable  to  us 
because  it  was  unusual  in  that  hall,  and  likely  to 
be  an  advantage  and  benefit  to  them  in  propor- 
tion as  it  became  in  future  less  unusual.  That, 
on  behalf  of  the  novelists,  I accepted  the  tribute 
as  an  appropriate  one ; inasmuch  as  we  had 
sometimes  reason  to  hope  that  our  imaginary 
worlds  afforded  an  occasional  refuge  to  men 
busily  engaged  in  the  toils  of  life,  from  which 
they  came  forth  none  the  worse  to  a renewal  of 
its  strivings  ; and  certainly  that  the  chief  magis- 
trate of  the  greatest  city  in  the  world  might  be 
fitly  regarded  as  the  representative  of  that  class 
of  our  readers.” 

Of  an  incident  towards  the  close  of  the  year, 
though  it  had  important  practical  results,  brief 
mention  will  here  suffice.  We  saw'  the  Man- 
nings executed  on  the  w’alls  of  Horsemonger- 
lane  gaol ; and  with  the  letter  which  Dickens 
wrote  next  day  to  the  Times  descriptive  of  w hat 
we  had  witnessed  on  that  memorable  morning, 
there  began  an  active  agitation  against  public 
executions  which  never  ceased  until  the  salutary 
change  was  effected  which  has  worked  so  well. 
Shortly  after  this  he  visited  Rockingham-castle, 
the  seat  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  IVatson,  his  Lausanne 
friends ; and  I must  preface  by  a word  or  two 
the  amusing  letter  in  which  he  told  me  of  this 
visit.  It  was  written  in  character,  and  the 
character  w’as  that  of  an  American  visitor  to 
England. 

“ I knew  him,  Horatio  ; ” and  a very  kindly 
honest  man  he  was,  who  had  come  to  h'.ngland 
authorised  to  make  emiuiry  into  our  general 
agricultural  condition,  and  who  discharged  his 
mission  by  publishing  some  reports  extremely 
creditable  to  his  good  sense  and  ability,  ex- 


LAST  YEARS  IN  DEVONSHIRE  TERRACE. 


pressed  in  a plain  nervous  English  that  reminded 
one  of  the  rural  writings  of  Cobbett.  But  in  an 
evil  hour  he  published  also  a series  of  private 
letters  to  friends  written  from  the  various  re- 
sidences his  introductions  had  opened  to  him  ; 
and  these  were  filled  with  revelations  as  to  the 
internal  economy  of  English  noblemen’s  country 
houses,  of  a highly  startling  description.  As  for 
e.xample,  how,  on  arrival  at  a house  your  “ name 
is  announced,  and  your  portmanteau  immediately 
taken  into  your  chamber,  which  the  servant  shows 
you,  with  every  convenience.”  How  “you  are 
asked  by  the  servant  at  breakfast  what  you  will 
have,  or  you  get  up  and  help  yourself.”  How  at 
dinner  you  don’t  dash  at  the  dishes,  or  contend 
for  the  “ fixings,”  but  wait  till  “ his  portion  is 
handed  by  servants  to  everyone.”  How  all  the 
wines,  fruit,  glasses,  candlesticks,  lamps,  and 
plate  are  “taken  care  of”  by  butlers,  who  have 
under-butlers  for  their  “adjuncts;”  how  ladies 
never  wear  “ white  satin  shoes  or  white  gloves 
more  than  once ; ” how  dinner-napkins  are 
“never  left  upon  the  table,  but  either  thrown 
into  your  chair  or  on  the  floor  under  the  table;” 
how  no  end  of  pains  are  taken  to  “ empty  slops  ; ” 
and  above  all  what  a national  propensity  there 
is  to  brush  a man’s  clothes  and  polish  his  boots, 
whensover  and  wheresoever  the  clothes  and 
boots  can  be  seized  without  the  man.  This 
Avas  what  Dickens  good-humouredly  laughs  at. 

“ Rockingham  Castle  : Friday,  thirtieth  of 
November,  1849.  Picture  to  yourself,  my  dear 
F,  a large  old  castle,  approached  by  an  ancient 
keep,  portcullis,  &c,  &c,  filled  with  company, 
waited  on  by  six-and-twenty  servants ; the  slops 
(and  wine-glasses)  continually  being  emptied; 
and  my  clothes  (with  myself  in  them)  always 
being  carried  off  to  all  sorts  of  places  ; and  you 
will  have  a faint  idea  of  the  mansion  in  which  I 
am  at  present  staying.  I should  have  written  to 
you  yesterday,  but  for  having  had  a very  busy 
■day.  Among  the  guests  is  a Miss  B,  sister  of 
the  Honourable  Miss  B (of  Salem,  Mass.),  whom 
Ave  once  met  at  the  house  of  our  distinguished 
literary  countryman  Colonel  Landor.  This  lady 
is  renowned  as  an  amateur  actress,  so  last  night 
Ave  got  up  in  the  great  hall  some  scenes  from  the 
School  for  Scandal ; the  scene  with  the  lunatic 
on  the  Avail,  from  the  Nicholas  Nickleby  of  Major- 
General  the  Hon.  C.  Dickens  (Richmond,  Va.) ; 
some  conjuring;  and  then  finished  off  Avith 
country  dances  ; of  Avhich  we  had  two  admirably 
good  ones,  quite  new  to  me,  though  really  old. 
Getting  the  Avords,  and  making  the  preparations, 
occupied  (as  you  may  believe)  the  Avhole  day  ; 
and  it  AA'as  three  o’clock  before  I got  to  bed.  It 
Avas  an  excellent  entertainment,  and  Ave  Avere  all 


269 

uncommonly  merry I had  a very  polite 

letter  from  our  enterprising  countryman  Aiajor 
Bentley  (of  Lexington,  Ky.),  Avhich  I shall  shoAv 
you  Avhen  I come  home.  We  leave  here  this 
afternoon,  and  I shall  expect  you  according  to 
appointment,  at  a quarter  past  ten  a.m.  to- 
morroAv.  Of  all  the  country-houses  and  estates 
I have  yet  seen  in  England,  1 think  this  is  by 
far  the  best.  Everything  undertaken  eventuates 
in  a most  magnificent  hospitality ; and  you  Avill 
be  pleased  to  hear  that  our  celebrated  felloAV 
citizen  General  Boxall  (Pittsburg,  Penn.)  is  en- 
gaged in  handing  doAvn  to  posterity  the  face  of 
the  OAvner  of  the  mansion  and  of  his  youthful  son 
and  daughter.  At  a future  time  it  Avill  be  my 
duty  to  report  on  the  turnips,  mangel-Avurzel, 
ploughs,  and  live  stock ; and  for  the  present  I 
Avill  only  say  that  I regard  it  as  a fortunate 
circumstance  for  the  neighbouring  community 
that  this  patrimony  should  have  fallen  to  my 
spirited  and  enlightened  host.  Every  one  has 
profited  by  it,  and  the  labouring  people  in 
especial  are  thoroughly  Avell  cared-for  and  looked 
after.  To  see  all  the  household,  headed  by  an 
enormously  fat  housekeeper,  occupying  the  back 
benches  last  night,  laughing  and  applauding  with- 
out any  restraint ; and  to  see  a blushing  sleek- 
headed footman  produce,  for  the  Avatch-trick,  a 
silver  Avatch  of  the  most  portentous  dimensions, 
amidst  the  rapturous  delight  of  his  brethren  and 
sisterhood  ; Avas  a very  pleasant  spectacle,  even 
to  a conscientious  republican  like  yourself  or  me, 
Avho  cannot  but  contemplate  the  parent  country 
Avith  feelings  of  pride  in  our  OAvn  land,  Avhich 
(as  AA'as  Avell  observed  by  the  Honourable  Elias 
Deeze,  of  Hartford,  Conn.)  is  truly  the  land  of 
the  free.  Best  remembrances  from  Columbia’s 
daughters.  Ever  thine,  my  dear  F, — H.C.” 
Dickens,  during  the  too  brief  time  his  excellent 
friend  AA'as  spared  to  him,  often  repeated  his 
visits  to  Rockingham,  ahvays  a surpassing  enjoy- 
ment ; and  in  the  Avinter  of  1850  he  accomplished 
there,  Avith  help  of  the  country  carpenter,  “ a very 
elegant  little  theatre,”  of  Avhich  he  constituted 
himself  manager,  and  had  among  his  actors  a 
brother  of  the  lady  referred  to  in  his  letter,  “ a 
very  good  comic  actor,  but  loose  in  Avords;” 
poor  Augustus  Stafford  “ more  than  passable  ; ” 
and  “a  son  of  Vernon  Smith’s,  really  a capital 
loAV  comedian.”  It  will  be  one  more  added  to 
the  many  examples  I have  given  of  his  untiring 
energy  both  in  work  and  play,  if  I mention  the 
fact  that  this  theatre  Avas  opened  at  Rockingham 
for  their  first  representation  on  Wednesday  the 
15  th  of  January ; that  after  the  performance  there 
Avas  a country  dance  Avhich  lasted  far  into  the 
morning ; and  that  on  the  next  evening,  after  a 


2 70  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

railway  journey  of  more  than  120  miles,  he  dined 
in  London  with  the  prime  minister,  Lord  John 
Russell. 

A little  earlier  in  that  winter  we  had  together 
taken  his  eldest  son  to  Eton,  and  a little  later  he 
had  a great  sorrow.  “Poor  dear  Jeffrey!”  he 
wrote  to  me  on  the  29th  January,  1850.  “ I 

bought  a Times  at  the  station  yesterday  morning, 
and  was  so  stunned  by  the  announcement,  that 
I felt  it  in  that  wounded  part  of  me  almost 
directly;  and  the  bad  symptoms  (modified)  re- 
turned within  a few  hours.  I had  a letter  from 
him  in  extraordinary  good  spirits  within  this 
week  or  two — he  was  better,  he  said,  than  he 
had  been  for  a long  time — and  I sent  him  proof- 
sheets  of  the  number  only  last  Wednesday.  I 
say  nothing  of  his  wonderful  abilities  and  great 
career,  but  he  was  a most  affectionate  and  de- 
voted friend  to  me ; and  though  no  man  could 
wish  to  live  and  die  more  happily,  so  old  in 
years  and  yet  so  young  in  faculties  and  sym- 
pathies, I am  very  very  deeply  grieved  for  his 
loss.”  He  was  justly  entitled  to  feel  pride  in 
being  able  so  to  word  his  tribute  of  sorrowing 
affection.  Jeft'ery  had  completed  wdth  consum- 
mate success,  if  ever  man  did,  the  work  appointed 
him  in  this  world ; and  few,  after  a life  of  such 
activities,  have  left  a memory  so  unstained  and 
pure.  But  other  and  sharper  sorrows  awaited 
Dickens. 

The  chief  occupation  of  the  past  and  present 
year,  David  Coppa'ficld,  will  have  a section  to 
itself,  and  in  this  may  be  touched  but  lightly. 
Once  fairly  in  it,  the  story  bore  him  irresistibly 
along ; certainly  with  less  trouble  to  himselt  in 
the  composition,  beyond  that  ardent  sympathy 
with  the  creatures  of  the  fancy  which  always 
made  so  absolutely  real  to  him  their  sufferings 
or  sorrows ; and  he  was  probably  never  less 
harassed  by  interruptions  or  breaks  in  his  in- 
vention. His  principal  hesitation  occurred  in 
connection  with  the  child-wife  Dora,  who  had 
become  a great  favourite  as  he  went  on;  and  it 
was  shortly  after  her  fate  had  been  decided,  in 
the  early  autumn  of  1850,  but  before  she  breathed 
her  last,  that  a third  daughter  was  born  to  him, 
to  whom  he  gave  his  dying  little  heroine’s  name. 
On  these  and  other  points,  without  forestalling 
what  waits  to  be  said  of  the  composition  of  this 
fine  story,  a few  illustrative  words  from  his  letters 
will  properly  find  a place  here.  “ Coppcrficld 
half  done,”  he  wrote  of  the  second  number  on 
the  6th  of  June.  “ I feel,  thank  God,  (piite 
confident  in  the  story.  I have  a move  in  it 
ready  for  this  month;  another  for  next;  and 
another  for  the  next.”  “ I think  it  is  necessary  ” 
(15th  of  November)  “to  decide  against  the 

special  pleader.  Your  reasons  quite  suffice.  I 
am  not  sure  but  that  the  banking  house  might 
do.  I will  consider  it  in  a walk.”  “ Banking 
business  impracticable”  (17th  of  November) 
“ on  account  of  the  confinement : which  would 
stop  the  story,  I foresee.  I have  taken,  for  the 
present  at  all  events,  the  proctor.  I am  wonder- 
fully in  harness,  and  nothing  galls  or  frets.” 
“ Coppcrficld  done  ” (20th  of  November)  “ after 
two  days’  very  hard  work  indeed  ; and  I think  a 
smashing  number.  His  first  dissipation  I hope 
will  be  found  worthy  of  attention,  as  a piece  of 
grotesque  truth.”  “ I feel  a great  hope”  (23rd 
of  January,  1850)  “that  I shall  be  remembered 
by  little  Em’ly,  a good  many  years  to  come.’' 
“ I begin  to  have  my  doubts  of  being  able  to 
join  you”  (20th  of  February),  “for  Coppcrficld 
runs  high,  and  must  be  done  to-morrow.  But 
I’ll  do  it  if  possible,  and  strain  every  nerve. 
Some  beautiful  comic  love,  I hope,  in  the  num- 
ber.” “Still  undecided  about  Dora”  (7th  of 
May),  “ but  must  decide  to-day.”  “ I have 
been”  (Tuesday,  20th  of  August)  “very  hard  at 
work  these  three  days,  and  have  still  Dora  to 
kill.  But  with  good  luck,  I may  do  it  to-morrow. 
Obliged  to  go  to  Shepherd’s-bush  to-day,  and  can 
consequently  do  little  this  morning.  Am  eschew- 
ing all  sorts  of  things  that  present  themselves  to 
my  fancy — coming  in  such  crowds  ! ” “ Work 

in  a very  decent  state  of  advancement  ” (13th  of 
August)  “ domesticity  notwithstanding.  I hope 
I shall  have  a splendid  number.  I feel  the  story 
to  its  minutest  point.”  “ Mrs.  Micawber  is  still  ” 
(15th  of  August),  “I  regret  to  say,  in  statu  quo. 
Ever  yours,  Wilkins  Mic.-vwber.”  The  little 
girl  was  born  the  next  day,  the  i6th,  and  re- 
ceived the  name  of  Dora  Annie.  The  most 
part  of  what  remained  of  the  year  was  passed 
away  from  home. 

'I'he  year  following  did  not  open  with  favour- 
able omen,  both  the  child  and  its  mother  having 
severe  illness.  The  former  rallied,  however,  and 
“ little  Dora  is  getting  on  bravel}’,  thank  God  I ” 
was  his  bulletin  of  the  early  part  of  February. 
Soon  after,  it  was  resolveil  to  make  trial  of 
Great  Malvern  for  Mrs.  Dickens ; and  lodgings 
were  taken  there  in  March,  Dickens  and  her 
sister  accompanying  her,  and  the  children  being 
left  in  London.  “It  is  a most  beautiful  place,” 
he  wrote  to  me  (15th  of  March).  “ 0 Heaven, 
to  meet  the  Gold  Watcrers  (as  1 did  this  morn- 
ing when  I went  out  for  a shower-bath)  dashing 
down  the  hills,  with  severe  expressions  on  their 
countenances,  like  men  doing  matches,  and  not 
exactly  winning  ! Then  a young  lady  in  a grey 
polka  going  up  the  hills,  regardless  of  .legs;  and 
meeting  a young  gentleman  (a  bail  case,  1 

LAST  YEARS  LN  DEVONSHIRE  TERRACE. 


should  say)  with  a light  black  silk  cap  on  under 
his  hat,  and  the  pimples  of  I don’t  know  how 
many  douches  under  that.  likewise  an  old 
man  who  ran  over  a milk-child,  rather  than 
stop! — with  no  neckcloth,  on  principle;  and 
with  his  mouth  wide  open  to  catch  the  morning 
air.”  He  had  to  return  to  London  after  the 
middle  of  March,  for  business  connected  with  a 
charitable  Home  established  at  Shepherd’s-bush 
by  Miss  Coutts  in  the  benevolent  hope  of  rescu- 
ing fallen  women  by  testing  their  fitness  for 
emigration,  frequently  mentioned  in  his  letters, 
and  which  largely  and  regularly  occupied  his 
time  for  several  years.  On  this  occasion  his 
stay  was  prolonged  by  the  illness  of  his  father, 
whose  health  had  been  failing  latterly,  and 
graver  symptoms  were  now  spoken  of.  “ I saw 
my  poor  father  twice  yesterday,”  he  wrote  to  me 
on  the  27th,  “the  second  time  between  ten  and 
eleven  at  night.  In  the  morning  I thought  him 
not  so  well.  At  night,  as  well  as  any  one  in 
such  a situation  could  be.”  Next  day  he  was  so 
much  better  that  his  son  went  back  to  Malvern  : 
but  the  end  came  suddenly.  We  were  expect- 
ing him  at  Knebworth,  and  I supposed  that 
some  accident  had  detained  him  at  Malvern  ; 
but  at  my  return  this  letter  waited  me.  “ De- 
vonshire-terrace,  Monday,  thirty-first  of  March, 

1851 My  poor  father  died  this  morning 

at  five  and  twenty  minutes  to  six.  They  had 
sent  for  me  to  Malvern,  but  I passed  John  on 

the  railway Arrived  at  eleven  last  night, 

and  was  in  Keppel-street  at  a quarter  past  eleven. 
He  did  not  know  me,  nor  any  one.  He  began 
to  sink  at  about  noon  yesterday,  and  never 
rallied  afterwards.  I remained  there  until  he 

died — O so  quietly I hardly  know  what 

to  do.  I am  going  up  to  Highgate  to  get  the 
ground.  Perhaps  you  may  like  to  go,  and  I 
should  like  it  if  you  do.  I will  not  leave  here 
before  two  o’clock,  but  I must  go  down  to 

Malvern  again,  at  night ” Mr.  John 

Dickens  was  laid  in  Highgate  Cemetery  on  the 
5th  of  April;  and  the  stone  placed  over  him  by 
the  son  who  has  made  his  name  a famous  one 
in  England,  bore  tribute  to  his  “ zealous,  useful, 
cheerful  spirit.”  What  more  is  to  be  said  of 
him  will  be  most  becomingly  said  in  speaking  of 
David  Copperfidd.  While  the  book  was  in  course 
of  being  written,  all  that  had  been  best  in  him 
came  more  and  more  vividly  back  to  its  author’s 
memory ; as  time  wore  on,  nothing  else  was 
remembered ; and  five  years  before  his  own 
death,  after  using  in  one  of  his  letters  to  me  a 
phrase  rather  out  of  the  common  with  him,  this 
was  added : “ I find  this  looks  like  my  poor  father, 
whom  I regard  as  a better  man  the  longer  I live.” 


27 1 


He  was  at  this  time  under  promise  to  take 
the  chair  at  the  General  Theatrical  Fund  on  the 
14th  of  April.  Great  efforts  were  made  to  re- 
lieve him  from  the  promise ; but  such  special 
importance  was  attached  to  his  being  present, 
and  the  Fund  so  sorely  then  required  help,  that, 
no  change  of  day  being  found  possible  for  the 
actors  who  desired  to  attend,  he  yielded  to  the 
pressure  put  upon  him ; of  which  the  result  was 
to  throw  upon  me  a sad  responsibility.  The 
reader  will  understand  why,  even  at  this  distance 
of  time,  my  allusion  to  it  is  brief. 

The  train  from  Malvern  brought  him  up  only 
five  minutes  short  of  the  hour  appointed  for  the 
dinner,  and  we  first  met  that  day  at  the  London 
Tavern.  I never  heard  him  to  greater  advan- 
tage than  in  the  speech  that  followed.  His 
liking  for  this  Fund  was  the  fact  of  its  not  con- 
fining its  benefits  to  any  special  or  exclusive 
body  of  actors,  but  opening  them  undoubtingly 
to  all ; and  he  gave  a description  of  the  kind  of 
actor,  going  down  to  the  infinitesimally  small, 
not  omitted  from  such  kind  help,  which  had  a 
half-pathetic  humour  in  it  that  makes  it  charm- 
ing still.  “In  our  Fund,”  he  said,  “ the  word 
exclusiveness  is  not  known.  We  include  every 
actor,  whether  he  be  Hamlet  or  Benedict : the 
ghost,  the  bandit,  or  the  court  physician ; or,  in 
his  one  person,  the  whole  king’s  army.  He 
may  do  the  light  business,  or  the  heavy,  or  the 
comic,  or  the  eccentric.  He  may  be  the  cap- 
tain who  courts  the  young  lady,  whose  uncle 
still  unaccountably  persists  in  dressing  himself 
in  a costume  one  hundred  years  older  than  his 
time.  Or  he  may  be  the  young  lady’s  brother 
in  the  white  gloves  and  inexpressibles,  whose 
duty  in  the  family  appears  to  be  to  listen  to  the 
female  members  of  it  whenever  they  sing,  and  to 
shake  hands  with  everybody  between  all  the 
verses.  Or  he  may  be  the  baron  who  gives 
the  fete,  and  who  sits  uneasily  on  the  sofa  under 
a canopy  with  the  baroness  while  the  fete  is 
going  on.  Or  he  may  be  the  peasant  at  the  fete 
who  comes  on  to  the  stage  to  swell  the  drinking 
chorus,  and  who,  it  may  be  observed,  always 
turns  his  glass  upside  down  before  he  begins  to 
drink  out  of  it.  Or  he  may  be  the  clown  who 
takes  away  the  doorstep  of  the  house  where  the 
evening  party  is  going  on.  Or  he  may  be  the 
gentleman  who  issues  out  of  the  house  on  the 
false  alarm,  and  is  precipitated  into  the  area. 
Or,  if  an  actress,  she  may  be  the  fairy  who 
resides  for  ever  in  a revolving  star  with  an  occa- 
sional visit  to  a bower  or  a palace.  Or  again, 
if  an  actor,  he  may  be  the  armed  head  of  the 
witch’s  cauldron ; or  even  that  extraordinary 
witch  concerning  whom  I have  observed  in 


272 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


country  places,  tlrat  he  is  much  less  like  the 
notion  formed  from  the  description  of  Hopkins 
than  the  Malcolm  or  Donalbain  of  the  previous 
scenes.  This  society,  in  short,  says,  ‘ Be  you 
what  you  may,  be  you  actor  or  actress,  be  your 


path  in  your  profession  never  so  high  or  never 
so  low,  never  so  haughty  or  never  so  humble, 
we  ofter  you  the  means  of  doing  gootl  to  your- 
selves, and  of  doing  good  to  your  brethren.” 
Half  an  hour  before  he  rose  to  speak  I had 


“LIKEWISE  AN  OLD  MAN  WHO  KAN  OVER  A MILK-CHILD,  RATHER  THAN  STOP! — WITH  NO  NECKCLOTH,  ON 
PRINCIPLE  ; AND  WITH  HIS  MOUTH  WIDE  OPEN  TO  CATCH  THE  MORNING  AIR.” 


been  called  out  of  the  room.  It  was  the  servant 
from  Devonshire-terrace  to  tell  me  his  child 
Dora  was  suddenly  dead.  She  had  not  been 
strong  from  her  birth ; but  there  was  just  at  this 
time  no  cause  for  special  fear,  when  unexpected 
convulsions  came,  and  the  frail  little  life  passed 


away.  My  decision  had  to  be  formed  at  once ; 
and  1 satisfied  myself  that  it  would  be  best  to 
permit  his  part  of  the  proceedings  to  close  be- 
fore the  truth  was  told  to  him.  But  as  he  went 
on,  after  the  sentences  I have  quoted,  to  sjieak 
of  actors  having  to  come  from  scenes  of  sickness, 


L/IST  YEARS  IN  DEVONSHIRE  TERRACE. 


of  suffering,  aye,  even  of  death  itself,  to  play 
their  parts  before  us,  my  part  was  very  difficult. 

Vet  how  often  is  it  with  all  of  us,”  he  pro- 
ceeded to  say,  and  I remember  to  this  hour  with 
what  anguish  I listened  to  words  that  had  for 
myself  alone,  in  all  the  crowded  room,  their  full 
significance:  “how  often  is  it  with  all  of  us, 
that  in  our  several  spheres  we  have  to  do  vio- 
lence to  our  feelings,  and  to  hide  our  hearts  in 
carrying  on  this  fight  of  life,  if  we  would  bravely 
discharge  in  it  our  duties  and  responsibilities.” 
In  the  disclosure  that  followed  when  he  left  the 
chair,  l\Ir.  Lemon,  who  was  present,  assisted 
me ; and  I left  this  good  friend  with  him  next 
day,  when  I went  myself  to  Malvern  and  brought 
back  Mrs.  Dickens  and  her  sister.  The  little 
child  lies  in  a grave  at  Highgate  near  that  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  John  Dickens;  and  on  the  stone 
which  covers  her  is  now  written  also  her  father’s 
name,  and  those  of  two  of  her  brothers. 

One  more  public  discussion  he  took  part  in,  be- 
fore quitting  London  for  the  rest  of  the  summer  ; 
and  what  he  said  (it  was  a meeting,  with  Lord 
Carlisle  in  the  chair,  in  aid  of  Sanitary  reform) 
very  pregnantly  illustrates  what  was  remarked 
by  me  on  a former  page.  He  declared  his  belief 
that  neither  education  nor  religion  could  do  any- 
thing really  useful  in  social  improvement  until 
the  way  had  been  paved  for  their  ministrations 
by  cleanliness  and  decency.  He  spoke  warmly 
of  the  services  of  Lord  Ashley  in  connection 
with  ragged  schools,  but  he  put  the  case  of  a 
miserable  child  tempted  into  one  of  those  schools 
out  of  the  noisome  places  in  which  his  life  was 
passed,  and  he  asked  what  a few  hours’  teaching 
could  effect  against  the  ever-renewed  lesson  of  a 
whole  existence.  “ But  give  him,  and  his,  a 
glimpse  of  heaven  through  a little  of  its  light 
and  air;  give  them  water;  help  them  to  be 
clean ; lighten  the  heavy  atmosphere  in  which 
their  spirits  flag,  and  which  makes  them  the 
callous  things  they  are ; take  the  body  of  the 
dead  relative  from  the  room  where  the  living 
live  with  it,  and  where  such  loathsome  familiarity 
deprives  death  itself  of  awe ; and  then,  but  not 
before,  they  will  be  brought  willingly  to  hear  of 
Him  whose  thoughts  were  so  much  with  the 
w’retched,  and  who  had  compassion  for  all 
human  sorrow.”  He  closed  by  proposing  Lord 
Ashley’s  health  as  having  preferred  the  higher 
ambition  of  labouring  for  the  poor  to  that  of  pur- 
suing the  career  open  to  him  in  the  service  of  the 
State ; and  as  having  also  had  “ the  courage  on 
all  occasions  to  face  the  cant  which  is  the  worst 
and  commonest  of  all,  the  cant  about  the  cant 
of  philanthropy.”  Lord  Shaftesbury  first  dined 
with  him  in  the  following  year  at  Tavistock-house. 


273 


Shortly  after  the  Sanitary  meeting,  came  the 
first  Guild  performances  ; and  then  Dickens  left 
Devonshire-terrace,  never  to  return  to  it.  With 
intervals  of  absence,  chiefly  at  the  Guild  repre- 
sentations, he  stayed  in  his  favourite  Fort-house 
by  the  sea  until  October,  when  he  took  posses- 
sion of  Tavistock-house ; and  from  his  letters 
may  be  added  a few  notices  of  this  last  holiday 
at  Broadstairs,  which  he  had  always  afterwards 
a kindly  word  for  ; and  to  which  he  said  pleasant 
adieu  in  the  sketch  of  our  watering-place,  written 
shortly  before  he  left.  “ It  is  more  delightful 
here”  (ist  of  June)  “ than  I can  express.  Corn 
growing,  larks  singing,  garden  full  of  flowers, 
fresh  air  on  the  sea. — O it  is  wonderful  ! Why 
can’t  you  come  down  next  Saturday  (bringing 
work)  and  go  back  with  me  on  Wednesday  for 
the  Copperfield  banquet  ? Concerning  which,  of 
course,  I say  yes  to  Talfourd’s  kind  proposal. 
Lemon  by  all  means.  And — don’t  you  think — 
Browne  ? Whosoever,  besides,  pleases  Talfourd 
will  please  me.”  Great  was  the  success  of  this 
banquet.  The  scene  was  the  Star-and-Garter  at 
Richmond ; Thackeray  and  Alfred  Tennyson 
joined  in  the  celebration;  and  the  generous 
giver  was  in  his  best  vein.  I have  rarely  seen 
Dickens  happier  than  he  was  amid  the  sunshine 
of  that  day.  Jerrold  and  Thackeray  returned 
to  town  w'ith  us;  and  a little  argument  be- 
tween them  about  money  and  its  uses,  led  to 
an  avowal  of  Dickens  about  himself  to  which 
I may  add  the  confirmation  of  all  our  years 
of  intercourse.  “ No  man,”  he  said,  “ attaches 
less  importance  to  the  possession  of  money, 
or  less  disparagement  to  the  want  of  it,  than 
I do.” 

I joined  him  for  the  August  regatta  and  stayed 
a pleasant  fortnight.  His  paper  on  “ Our 
Watering-place  ” appeared  while  I was  there, 
and  great  was  the  local  excitement.  But  now 
his  own  restlessness  with  fancies  for  a new  book 
had  risen  beyond  bounds,  and  for  the  time  he 
was  eager  to  open  it  in  that  prettiest  quaintest 
bit  of  English  landscape,  Strood  valley,  which 
reminded  him  always  of  a Swiss  scene.  I had 
not  left  him  many  days  when  these  lines  fol- 
lowed me.  “ I very  nearly  packed  up  a port- 
manteau and  went  away,  the  day  before  yester- 
day, into  the  mountains  of  Switzerland  alone  1 
Still  the  victim  of  an  intolerable  restlessness,  I 
shouldn’t  be  at  all  surprised  if  I wrote  to  you 
one  of  these  mornings  from  under  Mont  Blanc. 
I sit  down  between  whiles  to  think  of  a new 
story,  and,  as  it  begins  to  grow,  such  a torment 
of  a desire  to  be  anywhere  but  where  I am  ; and 
to  be  going  I don’t  know  where,  I don’t  know 
why;  takes  hold  of  me,  that  it  is  like  being 


'■n 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  ELCA'ENS. 


driven  away.  If  I had  had  a passport,  I sin- 
cerely believe  I should  have  gone  to  Switzerland 
the  night  before  last.  I should  have  remem- 
bered our  engagement — say,  at  Paris,  and  have 
come  back  for  it ; but  should  probably  have  left 
by  the  next  express  train.”  It  was  not  until  the 
end  of  November,  when  he  had  settled  himself 
in  his  new  London  abode,  that  the  book  was 
begun  (and  as  generally  happened  with  the 
more  important  incidents  of  his  life. 


though 


always  accidentally,  begun  on  a Friday) ; but 
precedence  is  due,  before  anything  more  is  said 
of  Bleak  House,  to  what  remains  to  be  said  of 
Copperjield. 

It  was  the  last  book  written  in  Devonshire 
Terrace  ; and  below  is  engraved  a drawing  by 
Maclise  of  this  house  where  so  many  of  Dickens’s 
masterpieces  were  composed,  done  on  the  first 
anniversary  of  the  day  when  Ins  daughter  Kate 
was  born. 


VIL 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 


i8;o. 


^jlCKENS  never  stood  so  high  in 
reputation  as  at  the  completion  of 
Copperjield.  From  the  first  it  had 
surpassed  in  popularity,  though  not 
in  sale,  all  his  previous  books  ex- 
cepting Pickwick.  “ You  gratify  me 
more  than  I can  tell  you,”  he  wrote  to 
Lytton,  “ by  what  you  say  about  Copper- 
field,  because  I hope  myself  that  some  heretofore 
deficient  fjualities  are  there.”  If  the  power  was 
not  greater  than  in  Chuzzlcwit,  the  subject  had 
more  attractiveness ; there  was  more  variety  ot 


incident,  with  a freer  play  of  character;  and 
there  was  withal  a suspicion,  which  though 
general  and  vague  had  sharpened  interest  not  a 
little,  that  underneath  the  fiction  lay  something 
of  the  author’s  life.  How  much  was  not  known 
by  the  world  until  he  had  passed  away.  When 
engaged  upon  its  close  he  had  written  thus 
(21st  October  1850)  : “ I am  within  three  pages 
of  the  shore  ; and  am  strangely  divided,  as  usual 
in  such  cases,  between  sorrow  and  joy.  Oh, 
my  dear  Forster,  if  I were  to  say  half  of  what 
Coppcrfield  makes  me  feel  to-night,  how  strangely, 
even  to  you,  I should  be  turned  inside  out ! I 
seem  to  be  sending  some  part  of  myself  into  the 
Shadowy  Workl.” 

To  be  acquainted  with  English  literature  is  to 
know,  that  into  its  most  famous  prose  fiction 
autobiography  has  entered  largely  in  disguise. 


1 


I 


DAVID  COrPERFIELD.  275 

and  that  the  characters  most  familiar  to  us  in 
the  English  novel  had  originals  in  actual  life. 
Smollett  never  wrote  a story  that  was  not  in 
some  degree  a recollection  of  his  own  adven- 
tures ; and  Fielding,  who  put  something  of  his 
wife  into  all  his  heroines,  had  been  as  fortunate 
in  finding,  not  Trulliber  only,  but  Parson  Adams 
himself,  among  his  living  experiences.  To  come 
later  down,  there  was  hardly  any  one  ever  knowar 
to  Scott  of  whom  his  memory  had  not  treasured 
up  something  to  give  minuter  reality  to  the  people 
of  his  fancy  ; and  we  know  exactly  whom  to  look 
for  in  Dandie  Dinmont  and  Jonathan  Oldbuck, 
in  the  office  of  Alan  Fairford  and  the  sick  room 
of  Crystal  Croftangry.  We  are  to  observe  also 
that  it  is  never  anything  complete  that  is  thus 
taken  from  life  by  a genuine  writer,  but  only 
leading  traits,  or  such  as  may  give  greater  finish; 
that  the  fine  artist  wall  embody  in  his  portraiture 
of  one  person  his  experiences  of  fifty ; and  that 
this  w'ould  have  been  Fielding’s  answer  to  Trul- 
liber if  he  had  objected  to  the  pigstye,  and  to 
Adams  if  he  had  sought  to  make  a case  of 
scandal  out  of  the  affair  in  Mrs.  Slipslop’s  bed- 
room. Such  questioning  befell  Dickens  re- 
peatedly in  the  course  of  his  writings,  where  he 
freely  followed,  as  we  have  seen,  the  method 
thus  common  to  the  masters  in  his  art ; but 
there  was  an  instance  of  alleged  wrong  in  the 
course  of  Copperfield  where  he  felt  his  vindica- 
tion to  be  hardly  complete,  and  what  he  did 
thereupon  was  characteristic. 

“ I have  had  the  queerest  adventure  this 
morning,”  he  wrote  (28th  of  December  1849) 
on  the  eve  of  his  tenth  number,  “ the  receipt  of 
the  enclosed  from  Miss  Mowcher  ! It  is  serio- 
comic, but  there  is  no  doubt  one  is  wrong  in 
being  tempted  to  such  a use  of  power.”  Thinking 
a grotesque  little  oddity  among  his  acquaintance 
to  be  safe  from  recognition,  he  had  done  what 
Smollett  did  sometimes,  but  never  Fielding,  and 
given  way,  in  the  first  outburst  of  fun  that  had 
broken  out  around  the  fancy,  to  the  temptation 
of  copying  too  closely  peculiarities  of  figure  and 
face  amounting  in  effect  to  deformity.  He  was 
shocked  at  discovering  the  pain  he  had  given, 
and  a copy  is  before  me  of  the  assurances  by 
way  of  reply  which  he  at  once  sent  to  the  com- 
plainant. That  he  was  grieved  and  surprised 
beyond  measure.  That  he  had  not  intended 
her  altogether.  That  all  his  characters,  being 
made  up  out  of  many  people,  were  composite, 
and  never  individual.  That  the  chair  (for  table) 
and  other  matters  were  undoubtedly  from  her, 
but  that  other  traits  were  not  hers  at  all ; 
and  that  in  Miss  Mowcher’s  “Ain’t  I volatile” 
his  friends  had  quite  correctly  recognized  the 

favourite  utterance  of  a different  person.  That 
he  felt  nevertheless  he  had  done  wrong,  and 
would  now  do  anything  to  repair  it.  That  he 
had  intended  to  employ  the  character  in  an  un- 
jDleasant  way,  but  he  would,  whatever  the  risk 
or  inconvenience,  change  it  all,  so  that  nothing 
but  an  agreeable  impression  should  be  left.  The 
reader  will  remember  how  this  was  managed,  and 
that  the  thirty-second  chapter  went  far  to  undo 
what  the  twenty-second  had  done. 

A much  earlier  instance  is  the  only  one  known 
to  me  where  a character  in  one  of  his  books  in- 
tended to  be  odious  was  copied  wholly  from  a 
living  original.  The  use  of  such  material,  never 
without  danger,  might  have  been  justifiable  here 
if  anywhere,  and  he  had  himself  a satisfaction  in 
always  admitting  the  identity  of  Mr.  Fang  in 
Oliver  Twist  with  Mr.  Laing  of  Hatton-garden. 
But  the  avowal  of  his  purpose  in  that  case,  and 
his  mode  of  setting  about  it,  mark  strongly  a 
difference  of  iDrocedure  from  that  which,  follow- 
ing great  examples,  he  adopted  in  his  later 
books.  An  allusion  to  a common  friend  in  one 
of  his  letters  of  the  present  date — “ A dreadful 
thought  occurs  to  me  ! how  brilliant  in  a book  1 ” 
—expresses  both  the  continued  strength  of  his 
temptations  and  the  dread  he  had  brought  him- 
self to  feel  of  immediately  yielding  to  them ; 
but  he  had  no  such  misgivings  in  the  days  of 
Oliver  Twist.  Wanting  an  insolent  and  harsh 
police-magistrate,  he  bethought  him  of  an  origi- 
nal ready  to  his  hand  in  one  of  the  London 
offices  ; and  instead  of  pursuing  his  later  method 
of  giving  a personal  appearance  that  should  in 
some  sort  render  difficult  the  identification  of 
mental  peculiarities,  he  was  only  eager  to  get  in 
the  whole  man  complete  upon  his  page,  figure 
and  face  as  well  as  manners  and  mind. 

He  wrote  accordingly  (from  Doughty-street 
on  the  3rd  of  June  1837)  to  Mr.  Haines,  a gen- 
tleman who  then  had  general  supervision  over 
the  police  reports  for  the  daily  papers.  “ In  my 
next  number  of  Oliver  Twist  I must  have  a 
magistrate ; and,  casting  about  for  a magistrate 
whose  -harshness  and  insolence  would  render 
him  a fit  subject  to  be  shown  up,  I have  as  a 
necessary  consequence  stumbled  upon  Mr.  Laing 
of  Hatton-garden  celebrity.  I know  the  man’s 
character  perfectly  well ; but  as  it  would  be 
necessary  to  describe  his  personal  appearance 
also,  I ought  to  have  seen  him,  which  (fortu- 
nately or  unfortunately  as  the  case  may  be)  I 
have  never  done.  In  this  dilemma  it  occurred 
to  me  that  perhaps  I might  under  your  auspices 
be  smuggled  into  the  Hatton-garden  office  for  a 
few  moments  some  morning.  If  you  can  further 
my  object  I shall  be  really  very  greatly  obliged 

THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICLCENS. 


276 


to  you.”  The  opportunity  was  found  ; the  magis- 
trate was  brought  up  before  the  novelist ; and 
shortly  after,  on  some  fresh  outbreak  of  intole- 
rable temper,  the  home-secretary  found  it  an  easy 
and  popular  step  to  remove  Mr.  Laing  from  the 
bench. 

This  was  a comfort  to  everybody,  saving  only 
the  principal  person  ; but  the  instance  was  highly 
exceptional,  and  it  rarely  indeed  happens  that 
to  the  individual  objection  natural  in  every  such 
case  some  consideration  should  not  be  paid.  In 
the  book  that  followed  Copperfield,  characters 
appeared  having  resemblances  in  manner  and 
speech  to  distinguished  writers  too  vivid  to  be 
mistaken  by  their  personal  friends.  To  Lawrence 
Boythorn,  under  whom  Landor  figured,  no  objec- 
tion was  made ; but  Harold  Skimpole,  recog- 
nizable for  Leigh  Hunt,  led  to  much  remark ; 
the  difference  being,  that  ludicrous  traits  were 
employed  in  the  first  to  enrich  without  impairing 
an  attractive  person  in  the  tale,  whereas  to  the 
last  was  assigned  a part  in  the  plot  which  no 
fascinating  foibles  or  gaieties  of  speech  could 
redeem  from  contempt.  Though  a want  of  con- 
sideration was  thus  shown  to  the  friend  whom 
the  character  would  be  likely  to  recall  to  many 
readers,  it  is  nevertheless  very  certain  that  the 
intention  of  Dickens  was  not  at  first,  or  at  any 
time,  an  unkind  one.  He  erred  from  thought- 
lessness only.  What  led  him  to  the  subject  at 
all,  he  has  himself  stated.  Hunt’s  philosophy 
of  moneyed  obligations,  always,  though  loudly, 
half  jocosely  proclaimed,  and  his  ostentatious 
wilfulness  in  the  humouring  of  that  or  any  other 
theme  on  which  he  cared  for  the  time  to  expa- 
tiate, had  so  often  seemed  to  Dickens  to  be 
whimsical  and  attractive,  that,  wanting  an  “ airy 
qualit}?-”  for  the  man  he  invented,  this  of  Hunt 
occurred  to  him;  and  “ partly  for  that  reason, 
and  partly,  he  has  since  often  grieved  to  think, 
for  the  pleasure  it  afforded  to  find  a delightful 
manner  reproducing  itself  under  his  hand,  he 
yielded  to  the  temptation  of  too  often  making 
the  character  speak  like  his  old  friend.”  This 
apology  was  made  after  Hunt’s  death, and 
mentioned  a revision  of  the  first  sketch,  so  as  to 
render  it  less  like,  at  the  suggestion  of  two  other 
friends  of  Hunt.  The  friends  were  Procter  (Barry 
Cornwall)  and  myself;  the  feeling  having  been 
mine  from  the  first  that  the  likeness  was  too 
like.  Procter  did  not  immediately  think  so,  but 
a little  reflection  brought  him  to  that  opinion. 
“ You  will  see  from  the  enclosed,”  Dickens  wrote 
(17th  of  March  1852),  “that  Procter  is  much  of 
my  mind.  I will  nevertheless  go  through  the 
character  again  in  the  course  of  the  afternoon, 
* In  a paper  in  All  the  Year  Round. 


and  soften  down  words  here  and  there.”  But 
before  the  day  closed  Procter  had  again  written 
to  him,  and  next  morning  this  was  the  result. 
“ I have  again  gone  over  every  part  of  it  very 
carefully,  and  I think  I have  made  it  much  less 
like.  I have  also  changed  Leonard  to  Harold. 
I have  no  right  to  give  Hunt  pain,  and  I am  so 
bent  upon  not  doing  it  that  I wish  you  would 
look  at  all  the  proof  once  more,  and  indicate 
any  particular  place  in  which  you  feel  it  particu- 
larly like.  Whereupon  I will  alter  that  place.” 
Upon  the  whole  the  alterations  were  consider- 
able, but  the  radical  wrong  remained.  The 
pleasant  sparkling  airy  talk,  which  could  not 
be  mistaken,  identified  with  odious  qualities  a 
friend  only  known  to  the  writer  by  attractive 
ones ; and  for  this  there  was  no  excuse.  Per- 
haps the  only  person  acquainted  with  the  origi- 
nal who  failed  to  recognize  the  copy,  was  the 
original  himself  (a  common  case) ; but  good- 
natured  friends  in  time  told  Hunt  everything, 
and  painful  explanations  followed,  where  nothing 
was  possible  to  Dickens  but  what  amounted  to 
a friendly  evasion  of  the  points  really  at  issue. 
The  time  for  redress  had  gone.  I yet  well  re- 
member with  what  eager  earnestness,  on  one  of 
these  occasions,  he  strove  to  set  LIunt  up  again 
in  his  own  esteem.  “ Separate  in  your  own 
mind,”  he  said  to  him,  “ what  you  see  of  } Our- 
self  from  what  other  people  tell  you  that  they 
see.  As  it  has  given  you  so  much  pain,  I take 
it  at  its  worst,  and  say  I am  deeply  sorry,  and 
that  I feel  I did  wrong  in  doing  it.  I should 
otherwise  have  taken  it  at  its  best,  and  ridden 
off  upon  what  I strongly  feel  to  be  the  truth, 
that  there  is  nothing  in  it  that  should  have  given 
} Ou  pain.  Every  one  in  writing  must  speak  from 
points  of  his  experience,  and  so  I of  mine  with 
you  ; but  when  I have  felt  it  was  going  too  close 
I stopped  myself,  and  the  most  blotted  parts  of 
my  MS.  are  those  in  which  I have  been  striving 
hard  to  make  the  impression  I was  writing  from, 
w/dike  you.  The  diary-writing  I took  from  Hay- 
don,  not  from  you.  1 now  first  learn  from  your- 
self that  you  ever  set  anything  to  music,  and  I 
could  not  have  copied  that  from  you.  The 
character  is  not  you,  for  there  are  traits  in  it 
common  to  fifty  thousand  people  besiiles,  and 
1 did  not  fancy  you  would  ever  recognize  it. 
Under  similar  disguises  my  own  father  and 
mother  are  in  my  books,  and  you  might  as  well 
see  your  likeness  in  Micawber.”  'I'he  ilistinction 
is  that  the  foibles  of  Mr.  Micawber  and  of  Mrs._ 
Nickleby,  however  laughable,  make  neither  ot 
them  in  speech  or  character  less  loveable ; and 
that  this  is  not  to  be  said  of  Skimpole’s.  'Ihe 
kindly  or  unkindly  impression  makes  all  the 


DAVID  COPPER  FIELD. 


tlift'erence  where  liberties  are  taken  with  a friend ; 
and  even  this  entirely  favourable  condition  will 
not  excuse  the  practice  to  many,  where  near 
relatives  are  concerned. 

For  what  formerly  was  said  of  the  Micawber 
resemblances,  Dickens  has  been  sharply  criti- 
cizetl ; and  in  like  manner  it  was  thought  ob- 
jectionable in  Scott  tliat  for  the  closing  scenes 
of  Crystal  Croftangry  he  should  have  found  the 
original  of  his  fretful  patient  at  the  death-bed  of 
his  own  father.  Lockhart,  who. tells  us_  this, 
adds  with  a sad  significance  that  he  himself 
lived  to  see  the  curtain  fall  at  Abbotsford  upon 
even  such  another  scene.  But  to  no  purpose 
will  such  objections  still  be  made.  All  great 
novelists  will  continue  to  use  their  experiences 
of  nature  and  fact,  whencesoever  derivable ; 
and  a remark  made  to  Lockhart  by  Scott  him- 
self suggests  their  vindication.  “ If  a man  will 
paint  from  nature,  he  will  be  most  likely  to 
interest  and  amuse  those  who  are  daily  looking 
at  it.” 

The  Micawber  offence  otherwise  w'as  not 
grave.  We  have  seen  in  what  way  Dickens 
was  moved  or  inspired  by  the  rough  lessons  of 
his  boyhood,  and  the  groundwork  of  the  charac- 
ter was  then  undoubtedly  laid ; but  the  rhetorical 
exuberance  impressed  itself  upon  him  later,  and 
from  this,  as  it  expanded  and  developed  in  a 
thousand  amusing  ways,  the  full-length  figure  took 
its  great  charm.  Better  illustration  of  it  could 
not  perhaps  be  given  than  by  passages  from 
letters  of  Dickens,  written  long  before  Micawber 
was  thought  of,  in  which  this  peculiarity  of  his 
father  found  frequent  and  always  agreeable  ex- 
pression. Several  such  have  been  given  in  this 
work  from  time  to  time,  and  one  or  two  more 
may  here  be  added.  It  is  proper  to  preface 
them  by  saying  that  no  one  could  know  the 
elder  Dickens  without  secretly  liking  him  the 
better  for  these  flourishes  of  speech,  which 
adapted  themselves  so  readily  to  his  gloom  as 
well  as  to  his  cheerfulness,  that  it  was  difficult 
not  to  fancy  they  had  helped  him  considerably 
in  both,  and  had  rendered  more  tolerable  to 
him,  if  also  more  possible,  the  shade  and  sun- 
shine of  his  chequered  life.  “ If  you  should 
have  an  opportunity,  pendente  lite,  as  my  father 
would  observe — indeed  did  on  some  memorable 
ancient  occasions  when  he  informed  me  that  the 
ban-dogs  would  shortly  have  him  at  bay  ” — • 
Dickens  wrote  in  December  1847.  “I  have  a 
letter  from  my  father”  (May  1841)  “lamenting 
the  fine  weather,  invoking  congenial  tempests, 
and  informing  me  that  it  will  not  be  possible  for 
him  to  stay  more  than  another  year  in  Devon- 
shire, as  he  must  then  proceed  to  Paris  to 
Life  of  Ch.a.rles  Dickens,  19. 


277 


consolidate  Augustus’s  French.”  “There  has 
arrived,”  he  writes  from  the  Peschiere  in  Sep- 
tember 1844,  “a  characteristic  letter  for  Kate 
from  iny  father.  He  dates  it  Manchester,  and 
says  he  has  reason  to  believe  that  he  will  be  in 
town  with  the  pheasants,  on  or  about  the  first  of 
October.  He  has  been  with  Fanny  in  the  Isle 
of  Man  for  nearly  two  months  : finding  there,  as 
he  goes  on  to  observe,  troops  of  friends,  and 
every  description  of  continental  luxury  at  a 
cheap  rate.”  Describing  in  the  same  year  the 
departure  from  Genoa  of  an  English  physician 
and  acquaintance,  he  adds  : “We  are  very  sorry 
to  lose  the  benefit  of  his  advice — or,  as  my 
father  would  say,  to  be  deprived,  to  a certain 
extent,  of  the  concomitant  advantages,  whatever 
they  may  be,  resulting  from  his  medical  skill, 
such  as  it  is,  and  his  professional  attendance,  in 
so  far  as  it  may  be  so  considered.”  Thus  also 
it  delighted  Dickens  to  remember  that  it  was  of 
one  of  his  connections  his  father  wrote  a cele- 
brated sentence ; “ And  I must  express  my 
tendency  to  believe  that  his  longevity  is  (to  say 
the  least  of  it)  extremely  problematical : ” and 
that  it  was  to  another,  who  had  been  insisting 
somewhat  obtrusively  on  dissenting  and  non- 
conforming  superiorities,  he  addressed  words 
which  deserve  to  be  no  less  celebrated ; “ The 
Supreme  Being  must  be  an  entirely  different 
individual  from  what  I have  every  reason  to 
believe  Him  to  be,  if  He  would  care  in  the 
least  for  the  society  of  your  relations.”  There 
w'as  a laugh  in  the  enjoyment  of  all  this,  no 
doubt,  but  with  it  much  personal  fondness ; and 
the  feeling  of  the  creator  of  Micawber,  as  he 
thus  humoured  and  remembered  the  foibles  of 
his  original,  found  its  counterpart  in  that  of  his 
readers  for  the  creation  itself,  as  its  part  was 
played  out  in  the  story.  Nobody  likes  Micaw- 
ber less  for  his  follies  ; and  Dickens  liked  his 
father  more,  the  more  he  recalled  his  whimsical 
qualities.  “The  longer  I live,  the  better  man  I 
think  him,”  he  exclaimed  afterwards.  The  fact 
and  the  fancy  had  united  whatever  was  most 
grateful  to  him  in  both. 

It  is  a tribute  to  the  generally  healthful  and 
manly  tone  of  the  story  of  Coppcrficld  that  such 
should  be  the  outcome  of  the  eccentricities  of 
this  leading  personage  in  it ; and  the  superiority 
in  this  respect  of  Micawber  over  Skimpole  is 
one  of  the  many  indications  of  the  inferiority  of 
Bleak  House  to  its  predecessor.  With  leading 
resemblances  that  make  it  difficult  to  say  which 
character  best  represents  the  principle  or  no 
principle  of  impecuniosity,  there  cannot  be  any 
doubt  which  has  the  advantage  in  moral  and 
intellectual  development.  It  is  genuine  humour 

427 


278  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICICENS. 


against  personal  satire.  Between  the  worldly 
circumstances  of  the  two,  there  is  nothing  to 
choose ; but  as  to  everything  else  it  is  the  differ- 
ence between  shabbiness  and  greatness.  Skim- 
pole’s  sunny  talk  might  be  expected  to  please  as 
much  as  Micawber’s  gorgeous  speech,  the  design 
of  both  being  to  take  the  edge  off  poverty.  But 
in  the  one  we  have  no  relief  from  attendant 
meanness  or  distress,  and  we  drop  down  from 
the  airiest  fancies  into  sordidness  and  pain  ; 
whereas  in  the  other  nothing  pitiful  or  merely 
selfish  ever  touches  us.  At  its  lowest  depth  of 
what  is  worst,  we  never  doubt  that  something 
better  must  turn  up  ; and  of  a man  who  sells 
his  bedstead  that  he  may  entertain  his  friend, 
we  altogether  refuse  to  think  nothing  but  badly. 
This  is  throughout  the  free  and  cheery  style  of 
Copperjidd,  The  masterpieces  of  IDickens’s 
humour  are  not  in  it ; but  he  has  nowhere  given 
such  variety  of  play  to  his  invention,  and  the 
book  is  unapproached  among  his  writings  for  its 
completeness  of  effect  and  uniform  pleasantness 
of  tone. 

What  has  to  be  said  hereafter  of  those  writ- 
ings generally,  will  properly  restrict  what  is  said 
here,  as  in  previous  instances,  mainly  to  per- 
sonal illustration.  The  Copperpidd  disclosures 
formerly  made  will  for  ever  connect  the  book 
Avith  the  author’s  individual  story  ; but  too  much 
has  been  assumed,  from  those  revelations,  of  a 
full  identity  of  Dickens  with  his  hero,  and  of  a 
supposed  intention  that  his  own  character  as 
well  as  parts  of  his  career  should  be  expressed 
in  the  narrative.  It  is  right  to  warn  the  reader 
as  to  this.  He  can  judge  for  himself  how  far 
the  childish  experiences  are  likely  to  have  given 
the  turn  to  Dickens’s  genius  ; whether  their  bit- 
terness had  so  burnt  into  his  nature,  as,  in  the 
hatred  of  oppression,  the  revolt  against  abuse  of 
power,  and  the  war  with  injustice  under  every 
form  displayed  in  his  earliest  books,  to  have  re- 
produced itself  only ; and  to  what  extent  mere 
compassion  for  his  own  childhood  may  account 
for  the  strange  fascination  always  exerted  over 
him  by  child-suffering  and  sorrow.  But,  many 
as  are  the  resemblances  in  Copperfield’s  adven- 
tures to  portions  of  those  of  Dickens,  and  often 
as  reflections  occur  to  David  which  no  one  inti- 
mate Avith  Dickens  could  fail  to  recognise  as  but 
the  reproduction  of  his,  it  Avould  be  the  greatest 
mistake  to  imagine  anything  like  a comiilete 
identity  of  the  fictitious  novelist  Avith  the  real 
one,  beyond  the  Ilungerford  scenes  ; or  to  sup- 
pose that  the  youth,  Avho  then  received  his  first 
harsh  schooling  in  life,  came  out  of  it  as  little 
harmed  or  hardened  as  David  did.  'I'he  lan- 
guage of  the  fiction  reflects  only  faintly  the 


narrative  of  the  actual  fact ; and  the  man  Avhose 
character  it  helped  to  form  Avas  expressed  not 
less  faintly  in  the  impulsive  impressionable 
youth  incapable  of  resisting  the  leading  of  j 
others,  and  only  disciplined  into  self-control  by  | 
the  later  griefs  of  his  entrance  into  manhood.  | 
Here  Avas  but  another  proof  hoAv  thoroughly  l 
Dickens  understood  his  calling,  and  that  to 
Aveave  fact  Avith  fiction  unskilfully  would  be  i 
only  to  make  truth  less  true.  ! 

The  character  of  the  hero  of  the  novel  finds  i 

indeed  his  right  place  in  the  story  he  is  supposed  | 

to  tell  rather  by  unlikeness  than  by  likeness  to  | 

Dickens,  even  Avhere  intentional  resemblance  ; 
might  seem  to  be  prominent.  Take  autobio-  i 
graphy  as  a design  to  show  that  any  man’s  life  , 

may  be  as  a mirror  of  existence  to  all  men,  and  the  ' 

individual  career  becomes  altogether  secondary  I 
to  the  variety  of  experiences  received  and  ren- 
dered back  in  it.  This  particular  form  in  ima-  | 
ginative  literature  has  too  often  led  to  the  indul-  j 
gence  of  mental  analysis,  metaphysics,  and  sen-  | 
timent,  all  in  excess  ; but  Dickens  Avas  carried  • 
safely  over  these  allurements  by  a healthy  judg-  i 

ment  and  sleepless  creative  fancy ; and  even  ' 

the  method  of  his  narrative  is  more  simple  here 
than  it  generally  is  in  his  books.  His  imagina- 
tive groAvths  have  less  luxuriance  of  underwood, 
and  the  croAvds  of  external  images  always  rising  ; , 
so  vividly  before  him  are  more  Avithin  control.  | ; 

Consider  Copperfield  thus  in  his  proper  place 
in  the  story,  and  sequence  as  Avell  as  connection 
Avill  be  given  to  the  varieties  of  its  childish  ad- 
venture. The  first  Avarm  nest  of  love  in  Avhich 
his  vain  fond  mother,  and  her  quaint  kind  ser- 
vant, cherish  him;  the  quick-folloAving  contrast  i 
of  hard  dependence  and  servile  treatment ; the 
escape  from  that  premature  and  dAvarfed  ma-  | 
turity  by  natural  relapse  into  a more  perfect 
childhood  ; the  then  leisurely  groAvth  of  emotions  | 
and  faculties  into  manhood ; these  are  component  j 
parts  of  a character  consistently  draAvn.  The  I 
sum  of  its  achievement  is  to  be  a successful 
cultivation  of  letters  ; and.  often  as  such  ima- 
ginary discipline  has  been  the  theme  of  fiction, 
there  are  not  many  happier  conceiitions  of  it.  j 
The  ideal  and  real  parts  of  the  boy’s  nature  ; ■ 
receive  development  in  the  proportions  Avhich  , 
contribute  best  to  the  eml  desired  ; the  readi- 
ness for  impulsive  attachments  that  had  put  him 
into  the  leading  of  others,  has  underneath  it  a i 

base  of  truthfulness  on  Avhich  at  last  he  rests  \ 

in  safety ; the  practical  man  is  the  outcome  of 
the  fanciful  youth  ; and  a more  than  ciiuiAxalcnt 
for  the  graces  of  his  visionary  days,  is  found  in 
the  active  sympathies  that  life  has  ojicned  to 
him.  Many  experiences  have  come  within  its 


DAVID  COPPERFIELD. 


range,  and  his  heart  has  had  room  for  all.  Our 
interest  in  him  cannot  but  be  increased  by 
knowing  how  much  he  e.\])resses  of  what  the 
author  had  himself  gone  through  ; but  David 
includes  far  less  than  this,  and  infinitely  more. 

That  the  incidents  arise  easily,  and  to  the  very 
eml  connect  themselves  naturally  and  unobtru- 
sively w'ith  the  characters  of  which  they  are  a 
part,  is  to  be  said  perhaps  more  truly  of  this 
than  of  any  other  of  Dickens’s  novels.  There 
is  a profusion  of  distinct  and  distinguishable 
people,  and  a prodigal  wealth  of  detail ; but 
unity  of  drift  or  purpose  is  apparent  always,  and 
the  tone  is  uniformly  right.  By  the  course  of 
the  events  we  learn  the  value  of  self-denial  and 
patience,  rpiiet  endurance  of  unavoidable  ills, 
strenuous  efforts  against  ills  remediable ; and 
everything  in  the  fortunes  of  the  actors  warns 
us,  to  strengthen  our  generous  emotions  and  to 
guard  the  purities  of  home.  It  is  easy  thus  to 
account  for  the  supreme  popularity  of  Coppcr- 
Jidd,  without  the  addition  that  it  can  hardly  have 
had  a reader,  man  or  lad,  who  did  not  discover 
that  he  was  something  of  a Copperfield  himself. 
Childhood  and  youth  live  again  for  all  of  us  in 
its  marvellous  boy-experiences.  Mr.  Micawber’s 
presence  must  not  prevent  my  saying  that  it  does 
not  take  the  lead  of  the  other  novels  in  humor- 
ous creation  ; but  in  the  use  of  humour  to  bring 
out  prominently  the  ludicrous  in  any  object  or 
incident  without  excluding  or  weakening  its  most 
enchanting  sentiment,  it  stands  decidedly  first. 
It  is  the  perfection  of  English  mirth.  We  are 
apt  to  resent  the  e.xhibition  of  too  much  good- 
ness, but  it  is  here  so  qualified  by  oddity  as  to 
become  not  merely  palatable  but  attractive ; 
and  even  pathos  is  heightened  by  w'hat  in  other 
hands  would  only  make  it  comical.  That  there 
are  alto  faults  in  the  book  is  certain,  but  none 
that  are  incompatible  with  the  most  masterly 
qualities;  and  a book  becomes  everlasting  by 
the  fact,  not  that  faults  are  not  in  it,  but  that 
genius  nevertheless  is  there. 

Of  its  method,  and  its  author’s  generally,  in 
the  delineation  of  character,  something  will 
have  to  be  said  on  a later  page.  The  author’s 
own  favourite  people  in  it,  I think,  were  the 
Peggotty  group ; and  perhaps  he  was  not  far 
wrong.  It  has  been  their  fate,  as  with  all  the 
leading  figures  of  his  invention,  to  pass  their 
names  into  the  language,  and  become  types ; 
and  he  has  nowhere  given  happier  embodiment 
to  that  purity  of  homely  goodness,  which,  by  the 
kindly  and  all-reconciling  influences  of  humour, 
may  exalt  into  comeliness  and  even  grandeur  the 
clumsiest  forms  of  humanity.  What  has  been 
indicated  in  the  style  of  the  book  as  its  greatest 


279 


charm  is  here  felt  most  strongly.  The  ludicrous 
so  helps  the  pathos,  and  the  humour  so  uplifts 
and  refines  the  sentiment,  that  mere  rude  affec- 
tion and  simple  manliness  in  these  Yarmouth 
boatmen,  passed  through  the  fires  of  unmerited 
suffering  and  heroic  endurance,  take  forms  half- 
chivalrous  half-sublime.  It  is  one  of  the  cants 
of  critical  superiority  to  make  supercilious  men- 
tion of  the  serious  passages  in  this  great  writer  ; 
but  the  storm  and  shipwreck  at  the  close  of 
Copperfield,  when  the  body  of  the  seducer  is 
flung  dead  upon  the  shore  amid  the  ruins  of  the 
home  he  has  wasted  and  by  the  side  of  the  man 
whose  heart  he  has  broken,  the  one  as  uncon- 
scious of  what  he  had  failed  to  reach  as  the 
other  of  what  he  has  perished  to  save,  is  a 
description  that  may  compare  with  the  most  im- 
pressive in  the  language.  And  to  those  who, 
knowing  Dickens  best,  know  what  realities  his 
books  were  to  him,  the  expression  of  his  sense 
of  suffering  in  composing  such  passages,  will 
have  in  it  not  a grain  of  pretence  or  affectation. 

“ I have  been  tremendously  at  work  these  two 
days”  (15th  of  September),  “eight  hours  at  a 
stretch  yesterday,  and  six  hours  and  a half  to- 
day, W'ith  the  Ham  and  Steerforth  chapter, 
which  has  completely  knocked  me  over — utterly 
defeated  me.” 

There  are  other  people  drawn  into  this  cata- 
strophe w'ho  are  among  the  failures  of  natural 
delineation  in  the  book.  But  though  Miss 
Dartle  is  curiously  unpleasant,  there  are  some 
natural  traits  in  her  (which  Dickens’s  least  life- 
like people  are  never  without) ; and  it  was  from 
one  of  his  lady  friends,  very  familiar  to  him 
indeed,  he  copied  her  peculiarity  of  never  saying 
anything  outright,  but  hinting  it  merely,  and 
making  more  of  it  that  way.  Of  Mrs.  Steerforth 
it  may  also  be  worth  remembering  that  Thacke- 
ray had  something  of  a fondness  for  her.  “ I 
knew  how  it  would  be  when  I began,”  says  a 
pleasant  letter  all  about  himself  w'ritten  imme- 
diately after  she  appeared  in  the  story.  “ My 
letters  to  my  mother  are  like  this,  but  then  she  j 
likes  ’em — like  Mrs.  Steerforth  ; don’t  you  like 
Mrs.  Steerforth?” 

Turning  to  another  group  there  is  another 
elderly  lady  to  be  liked  w'ithout  a shadow  of 
misgiving  ; abrupt,  angular,  extravagant,  but  the 
very  soul  of  magnanimity  and  rectitude  ; a cha- 
racter thoroughly  made  out  in  all  its  parts  ; a 
gnarled  and  knotted  piece  of  female  timber, 
sound  to  the  core;  a woman  Captain  Shandy 
would  have  loved  for  her  startling  oddities,  and 
who  is  linked  to  the  gentlest  of  her  sex  by  per- 
fect womanhood.  Dickens  has  done  nothing 
better,  for  solidness  and  truth  all  round,  than 


28o 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


Betsy  Trotwood.  It  is  one  of  her  oddities  to 
have  a fool  for  a companion  ; but  this  is  one  of 
them  that  has  also  most  pertinence  and  wisdom. 
By  a line  thrown  out  in  Wilhelm  Meisier,  that 
the  true  way  of  treating  the  insane  was,  in  all 
respects  possible,  to  act  to  them  as  if  they  were 
sane,  Goethe  anticipated  what  it  took  a century 
to  apply  to  the  most  terrible  disorder  of  hu- 
manity; and  what  Mrs.  Trotwood  does  for  Mr. 
Dick  goes  a step  farther,  by  showing  how  often 
asylums  might  be  dispensed  with,  and  how  large 
might  be  the  number  of  deficient  intellects  ma- 
nageable with  patience  in  their  own  homes.  Cha- 
racters hardly  less  distinguishable  for  truth  as 
well  as  oddity  are  the  kind  old  nurse  and  her 
husband  the  carrier,  whose  vicissitudes  alike  of 
love  and  of  mortality  are  condensed  into  the 
three  words  since  become  part  of  universal 
speech,  Ea?-kis  is  willm\  There  is  wholesome 
satire  of  much  utility  in  the  conversion  of  the 
brutal  schoolmaster  of  the  earlier  scenes  into  the 
tender  Middlesex  magistrate  at  the  close.  Nor 
is  the  humour  anywhere  more  subtle  than  in  the 
country  undertaker,  who  makes  up  in  fullness 
of  heart  for  scantness  of  breath,  and  has  so 
little  of  the  vampire  propensity  of  the  town 
undertaker  in  Chuzzlewif,  that  he  dares  not  even 
inquire  after  friends  who  are  ill  for  fear  of  un- 
kindly misconstruction.  The  test  of  a master 
in  creative  fiction,  according  to  Hazlitt,  is  less 
in  contrasting  characters  that  are  unlike  than  in 
distinguishing  those  that  are  like ; and  to  many 
examples  of  the  art  in  Dickens,  such  as  the 
Shepherd  and  Chadband,  Creakle  and  Squeers, 
Charley  Bates  and  the  Dodger,  the  Guppys  and 
the  Wemmicks,  Mr.  Jaggers  and  Mr.  Vholes, 
Sampson  Brass  and  Conversation  Kenge,  Jack 


Bunsby,  Captain  Cuttle,  and  Bill  Barley,  the 
Berbers  and  Pells,  the  Dodsons  and  Foggs, 
Sarah  Gamp  and  Betsy  Prig,  and  a host  of 
others,  is  to  be  added  the  nicety  of  distinction 
between  those  eminent  furnishers  of  funerals, 
Mr.  Mould  and  Messrs.  Omer  and  Joram.  All 
the  mixed  mirth  and  sadness  of  the  story  are 
skilfully  drawn  into  the  handling  of  this  portion 
of  it ; and,  amid  wooings  and  preparations  for 
weddings  and  church-ringing  bells  for  baptisms, 
the  steadily-going  rat-tat  of  the  hammer  on  the 
coffin  is  heard. 

Of  the  heroines  who  divide  so  equally  between 
them  the  impulsive,  easily  swayed,  not  disloyal 
but  sorely  distracted  affections  of  the  hero,  the 
spoilt  foolishness  and  tenderness  of  the  loving 
little  child-wife,  Dora,  is  more  attractive  than 
the  too  unfailing  wisdom  and  self-sacrificing 
goodness  of  the  angel-wife,  Agnes.  The  scenes 
of  the  courtship  and  housekeeping  are  matchless ; 
and  the  glimpses  of  Doctors’  Commons,  opening 
those  views,  by  Mr.  Spenlow,  of  man’s  vanity 
of  expectation  and  inconsistency  of  conduct  in 
neglecting  the  sacred  duty  of  making  a will, 
on  which  he  largely  moralises  the  day  before  he 
dies  intestate,  form  a background  highly  appro- 
priate to  David’s  domesticities.  This  was  among 
the  reproductions  of  personal  experience  in  the 
book  ; but  it  was  a sadder  knowledge  that  came 
with  the  conviction  some  years  later,  that 
David’s  contrasts  in  his  earliest  married  life  be- 
tween his  happiness  enjoyed  and  his  happiness 
once  anticipated,  the  “ vague  unhappy  loss  or 
want  of  something”  of  which  he  so  frequently 
complains,  reflected  also  a personal  experience 
which  had  not  been  supplied  in  fact  so  success- 
fully as  in  fiction. 


BOOK  SEVENTH.— CONTINENT  REVISITED. 

1852 — 1856.  yEt.  40 — 43. 

I.  Bleak  House  and  Hard  Times.  I III.  In  Switzerland  and  Italy. 

II.  Home  Incidents.  [ IV.  Three  Summers  at  Boulogne. 

V.  Residence  in  Paris. 


I. 

BLEAK  HOUSE  AND  HARD  TIIMES. 
1852—1856. 

These  books  were  written  between  1S51  and 
1854,  when  for  a portion  of  the  time  the 
author  was  living  abroad ; and,  reserving  to 


another  section  the  home  life  that  filled  the 
same  interval,  some  account  of  both  novels  will 
be  given  here.  lAttlc  Dorril,  though  begun 
in  IMris,  was  not  finished  until  some  time 
after  the  Continental  residence  had  closed,  and 
belongs  therefore  to  a later  division.  David 
Coppcrficld  had  been  written  between  the  open- 
ing of  1849  October  1850,  its  publication 


BLEAK  HOUSE  AND  HARD  TIMES. 


covering  that  time ; and  its  sale,  which  has  since 
taken  the  lead  of  all  his  books  but  Pickivick, 
i never  then  exceeding  twenty-five  thousand.  But 
though  it  remained  thus  steady  for  the  time,  the 
popularity  of  the  book  added  largely  to  the  sale 
of  its  successor.  Bleak  House  was  begun  in  his 
new  abode  of  Tavistock  House  at  the  end  of 
November  1851  ; was  carried  on,  amid  the  ex- 
citements of  the  Guild  performances,  through 
the  following  year ; was  finished  at  Boulogne  in 
the  August  of  1853  ; and  was  dedicated  to  “his 
friends  and  companions  in  the  Guild  of  Litera- 
ture and  Art.”  Hard  Times  was  planned  and 
begun  in  the  winter  of  1853,  amid  the  busy  pre- 
paration of  Christmas  theatricals  for  his  children 
to  be  presently  described  ; was  finished  at  Bou- 
logne in  the  summer  of  1854  3 and  was  dedicated 
to  Carlyle. 

Tire  autobiographical  form  of  Copperfield  was 
in  some  respects  continued  in  Bleak  House  by 
means  of  extracts  from  the  personal  relation  of 
its  heroine.  But  the  distinction  between  the 
narrative  of  David  and  the  diary  of  Esther,  like 
that  between  Micawber  and  Skimpole,  marks 
the  superiority  of  the  first  to  its  successor.  To 
represent  a storyteller  as  giving  the  most  sur- 
prising vividness  to  manners,  motives,  and  cha- 
racters of  which  we  are  to  believe  her,  all  the 
tim.e,  as  artlessly  unconscious,  as  she  is  also  en- 
tirely ignorant  of  the  good  qualities  in  herself 
she  is  naively  revealing  in  the  story,  was  a diffi- 
cult enterprise,  full  of  hazard  in  any  case,  not 
worth  success,  and  certainly  not  successful.  In- 
genuity is  more  apparent  than  freshness,  the 
invention  is  neither  easy  nor  unstrained,  and 
though  the  old  marvellous  power  over  the  real  is 
again  abundantly  manifest,  there  is  some  alloy 
of  the  artificial.  Nor  can  this  be  said  of  Esther’s 
relation  without  some  general  application  to  the 
book  of  which  it  forms  so  large  a part.  The 
novel  is  nevertheless,  in  the  very  important  par- 
ticular of  construction,  perhaps  the  best  thing 
done  by  Dickens. 

In  his  later  writings  he  had  been  assiduously 
cultivating  this  essential  of  his  art,  and  here  he 
brought  it  very  nearly  to  perfection.  Of  the  tend- 
ency of  composing  a story  piecemeal  to  induce 
greater  concern  for  the  part  than  for  the  whole, 
he  had  been  always  conscious;  but  I remember 
a remark  also  made  by  him  to  the  effect  that  to 
read  a story  in  parts  had  no  less  a tendency  to 
prevent  the  reader’s  noticing  how  thoroughly  a 
work  so  presented  might  be  calculated  for  perusal 
as  a whole.  Look  hack  from  the  last  to  the  first 
page  of  the  present  novel,  and  not  even  in  the 
highest  examples  of  this  kind  of  elaborate  care 


281 


will  it  be  found  that  event  leads  more  closely  to 
event,  or  that  the  separate  incidents  have  been 
planned  with  a more  studied  consideration  of 
the  bearing  they  are  severally  to  have  on  the 
general  result.  Nothing  is  introduced  at  ran- 
dom, everything  tends  to  the  catastrophe,  the 
various  lines  of  the  plot  converge  and  fit  to  its 
centre,  and  to  the  larger  interest  all  the  rest  is 
irresistibly  drawn.  The  heart  of  the  story  is  a 
Chancery  suit.  On  this  the  plot  hinges;  and 
on  incidents  connected  with  it,  trivial  or  im- 
portant, the  passion  and  suffering  turn  exclu- 
sively. Chance  words,  or  the  deeds  of  chance 
people,  to  appearance  irrelevant,  are  found  every- 
where influencing  the  course  taken  by  a train  of 
incidents  of  which  the  issue  is  life  or  death, 
happiness  or  misery,  to  men  and  women  per- 
fectly unknown  to  them,  and  to  whom  they  are 
unknown.  Attorneys  of  all  possible  grades,  law 
clerks  of  every  conceivable  kind,  the  copyist,  the 
law  stationer,  the  usurer,  all  sorts  of  money 
lenders,  suitors  of  every  description,  haunters  of 
the  Chancery  court  and  their  victims,  are  for 
ever  moving  round  about  the  lives  of  the  chief 
persons  in  the  tale,  and  drawing  them  on  insen- 
sibly, but  very  certainly,  to  the  issues  that  await 
them.  Even  the  fits  of  the  little  law-stationer’s 
servant  help  directly  in  the  chain  of  small  things 
that  lead  indirectly  to  Lady  Dedlock’s  death. 
One  strong  chain  of  interest  holds  together  Ches- 
ney  Wold  and  its  inmates.  Bleak  House  and  the 
Jarndyce  group.  Chancery  with  its  sorry  and 
sordid  neighbourhood.  The  characters  multiply 
as  the  tale  advances,  but  in  each  the  drift  is  the 
same.  “ There’s  no  great  odds  betwixt  my 
noble  and  learned  brother  and  myself,”  says  the 
grotesque  proprietor  of  the  rag  and  bottle  shop 
under  the  wall  of  Lincoln’s-inn,  “ they  call  me 
Lord  Chancellor  and  my  shop  Chancery,  and 
we  both  of  us  grub  on  in  a muddle.”  Edax 
rerum  the  motto  of  both,  but  with  a difference. 
Out  of  the  lumber  of  the  shop  emerge  slowly 
some  fragments  of  evidence  by  which  the  chief 
actors  in  the  story  are  sensibly  affected,  and  to 
which  Chancery  itself  might  have  succumbed  if 
its  devouring  capacities  had  been  less  complete. 
But  by  the  time  there  is  found  among  the  lumber 
the  will  which  puts  all  to  rights  in  the  Jarndyce 
suit,  it  is  found  to  be  too  late  to  put  anything  to 
rights.  The  costs  have  swallowed  up  the  estate, 
and  there  is  an  end  of  the  matter. 

What  in  one  sense  is  a merit  however  may  in 
others  be  a defect,  and  this  book  has  suffered  by 
the  very  completeness  with  which  its  Chancery 
moral  is  worked  out.  The  didactic  in  Dickens’s 
earlier  novels  derived  its  strength  from  being 
merely  incidental  to  interest  of  a higher  and 


282  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


more  permanent  kind,  and  not  in  a small  degree 
from  the  playful  sportiveness  and  fancy  that 
lighted  up  its  graver  illustrations.  Here  it  is  of 
sterner  stuff,  too  little  relieved,  and  all-pervad- 
ing. The  fog  so  marvellously  painted  in  the 
opening  chapter  has  hardly  cleared  away  when 
there  arises,  in  Jai-ndyce  v.  Jarndyce,  as  bad  an 
atmosphere  to  breathe  in  ; and  thenceforward  to 
the  end,  clinging  round  the  people  of  the  story 
as  they  come  or  go,  in  dreary  mist  or  in  heavy 
cloud,  it  is  rarely  absent.  Dickens  has  himself 
described  his  purpose  to  have  been  to  dwell  on 
the  romantic  side  of  familiar  things.  But  it  is 
the  romance  of  discontent  and  misery,  with 
a very  restless  dissatisfied  moral,  and  is  too 
much  brought  about  by  agencies  disagreeable 
and  sordid.  The  Guppys,  Weevles,  Snagsbys, 
Chadbands,  Krooks,  and  Smallweeds,  even  the 
Kenges,  Vholeses,  and  Tulkinghorns,  are  much 
too  real  to  be  pleasant ; and  the  necessity  be- 
comes urgent  for  the  reliefs  and  contrasts  of  a 
finer  humanity.  These  last  are  not  wanting  ; 
yet  it  must  be  said  that  we  hardly  escape,  even 
with  tliem,  into  the  old  freedom  and  freshness 
of  the  author’s  imaginative  worlds,  and  that  the 
too  conscious  unconsciousness  of  Esther  flings 
something  of  a shade  on  the  radiant  goodness 
of  John  Jarndyce  himself.  Nevertheless  there 
are  very  fine  delineations  in  the  story.  The 
crazed  little  Chancery  lunatic.  Miss  Elite;  the 
loud-voiced  tender-souled  Chancery  victim.  Grid- 
ley  ; the  poor  good-hearted  youth,  Richard, 
broken  up  in  life  and  character  by  the  suspense 
of  the  Chancery  suit  on  whose  success  he  is  to 
“ begin  the  world,”  believing  himself  to  be  saving 
money  when  he  is  stopped  from  squandering 
it,  and  thinking  that  having  saved  it  he  is  en- 
titled to  fling  it  away ; trooper  George,  with  the 
Bagnets  and  their  household,  where  the  most 
ludicrous  points  are  more  forcible  for  the  pathetic 
touches  underlying  them;  the  Jellyby  interior, 
and  its  philanthropic  strong-minded  mistress, 
])lacid  and  smiling  amid  a household  muddle 
out-muddling  Chancery  itself ; the  model  of  de- 
])ortment,  Turveydrop  the  elder,  whose  relations 
to  the  young  people,  whom  he  so  superbly  patron- 
izes by  being  dependent  on  them  for  everything, 
touch  delightfully  some  subtle  points  of  truth ; 
the  inscrutable  Tulkinghorn,  and  the  immortal 
Bucket ; all  these,  and  especially  the  last,  have 
been  added  by  this  book  to  the  list  of  people 
more  intimately  and  permanently  known  to  us 
than  the  scores  of  actual  familiar  accpiaintance 
whom  we  see  around  us  living  and  dying. 

But  how  do  we  know  them  ? There  are  plenty 
to  tell  us  that  it  is  by  vividness  of  external  ob- 
servation rather  than  by  depth  of  imaginative 


insight,  by  tricks  of  manner  and  phrase  rather 
than  by  truth  of  character,  by  manifestation  out- 
wardly rather  than  what  lies  behind.  Another 
opportunity  will  present  itself  for  some  remark 
on  this  kind  of  criticism,  which  has  always  had  a 
special  pride  in  the  subtlety  of  its  differences 
from  what  the  world  may  have  shown  itself 
prone  to  admire.  “ In  my  father’s  library,”  wrote 
Landor  to  Southey’s  daughter  Edith,  “ was  the 
C7'ilical  Review  from  its  commencement ; and  it 
would  have  taught  me,  if  I could  not  even  at  a 
very  early  age  teach  myself  better,  that  Fielding, 
Sterne,  and  Goldsmith  were  really  worth  no- 
thing.” It  is  a style  that  will  never  be  without  cul- 
tivators, and  its  frequent  application  to  Dickens 
will  be  shown  hereafter.  But  in  s])eaking  of  a 
book  in  which  some  want  of  all  the  freshness  of 
his  genius  first  became  apparent,  it  would  be 
wrong  to  omit  to  add  that  his  method  of  hand- 
ling a character  is  as  strongly  impressed  on  the 
better  portions  of  it  as  on  the  best  of  his  writings. 
It  is  difficult  to  say  when  a peculiarity  becomes 
too  grotesque,  or  an  extravagance  too' farcical, 
to  be  within  the  limits  of  art,  for  it  is  the  truth 
of  these  as  of  graver  things  that  they  exist  in  the 
world  in  just  the  proportions  and  degree  in 
which  genius  can  discover  them.  But  no  man 
had  ever  so  surprising  a faculty  as  Dickens  of 
becoming  himself  what  he  was  rejrresenting ; 
and  of  entering  into  mental  phases  and  processes 
so  absolutely,  in  conditions  oflife  the  most  varied, 
as  to  reproduce  them  completely  in  dialogue 
without  need  of  an  explanatory  word.  (He  only 
departed  from  this  method  once,  with  a result 
which  will  then  be  jrointed  out.)  In  speaking 
on  a former  page  of  the  impression  of  reality 
thus  to  a singular  degree  conveyed  by  him,  it 
was  remarked  that  where  characters  so  revealed 
themselves  the  author’s  part  in  them  was  done  ; 
and  in  the  book  under  notice  there  is  none,  not 
excepting  those  least  attractive  which  apparently 
present  only  prominent  or  salient  qualities,  in 
which  it  will  not  be  found  that  the  characteristic 
feature  embodied,  or  tlie  main  iilea  personified, 
contains  as  certainly  also  some  human  truth 
universally  applicable.  To  expound  or  discuss 
his  creations,  to  lay  them  psychologically  bare, 
to  analyse  their  organisms,  to  subject  to  minute 
demonstration  their  fibrous  and  other  tissues, 
was  not  at  all  Dickens’s  way.  His  genius  was 
his  fellow  feeling  with  his  race  ; his  mere  jrer- 
sonality  was  never  the  bound  or  limit  to  his  per- 
ceptions, however  strongly  sometimes  it  might 
colour  them  ; he  never  slojrped  to  dissect  or 
anatomize  his  own  work  ; but  no  man  could 
better  adjust  the  outward  and  visible  odilitics  in 
a delineation  to  its  inner  and  unchangeable  vera- 


BLEAK  HOUSE  AND  HARD  TIMES. 


2S3 


cities.  Tlie  rougli  estimates  we  form  of  charac- 
ter, if  we  liave  any  truth  of  perception,  are  on 
the  wliolc  correct ; but  men  touch  and  interfere 
witli  one  another  by  the  contact  of  their  ex- 
tremes, and  it  may  very  often  become  necessarily 
the  main  business  of  a novelist  to  display  the 
salient  points,  the  sharp  angles,  or  the  pro- 
minences merely. 

The  pathetic  parts  of  Bleak  House  do  not  live 
largely  in  remembrance,  but  the  deaths  of  Richard 
and  of  Gridley,  the  rvandering  fancies  of  Miss 
riite,  and  the  extreme]_v  touching  way  in  which 
the  gentleman-nature  of  the  pompous  old  baro- 
; net,  Dedlock,  asserts  itself  under  suffering,  belong 
I to  a high  order  of  writing.  There  is  another 
, most  affecting  e.xample,  taking  the  lead  of  the 
I rest,  in  the  poor  street-sweeper  Jo;  which  has 
' made  perhaps  as  deep  an  impression  as  anything 
j in  Dickens.  “ We  have  been  reading  Bleak 
House  aloud,”  the  good  Dean  Ramsay  wrote  to 
me  very  shortly  before  his  death.  “ Surely  it  is 
one  of  his  most  powerful  and  successful ! What 
a triumph  is  Jo!  Uncultured  nature  is  the)'e 
indeed ; the  intimations  of  true  heartfeeling,  the 
glimmerings  of  higher  feeling,  all  are  there  ; but 
everything  still  consistent  and  in  harmony. 

I Wonderful  is  the  genius  that  can  show  all  this, 
j yet  keep  it  only  and  really  part  of  the  character 
I itself,  low  or  common  as  it  may  be,  and  use  no 
morbid  or  fictitious  colouring.  To  my  mind, 
i nothing  in  the  field  of  fiction  is  to  be  found  in 
' English  literature  surpassing  the  death  of  Jo  !” 

1 What  occurs  at  and  after  the  inquest  is  as  worth 
i remembering.  Jo’s  evidence  is  rejected  because 
1 he  cannot  exactly  say  what  will  be  done  to  him 

j after  he  is  dead  if  he  should  tell  a lie ; * but  he 

: manages  to  say  afterwards  very  exactly  what  the 


deceased  while  he  lived  did  to  him.  That  one 
cold  winter  night,  when  he  was  shivering  in  a 

• “ O ! Here’s  the  boy,  gentlemen  ! Here  he  is, 
very  muddy,  very  hoarse,  very  ragged.  Now,  boy  ! — 
But  stop  a minute.  Caution.  This  boy  must  be  put 
through  a few  preliminary  paces.  Name,  Jo.  Nothing 
else  that  he  knows  on.  Don’t  know  that  everybody  has 
two  names.  Never  heerd  of  sich  a think.  Don’t  know 
that  Jo  is  short  for  a longer  name.  Thinks  it  long 
enough  for  him.  He  don’t  find  no  fault  with  it.  Spell 
it  ? No.  He  can’t  spell  it.  No  father,  no  mother,  no 
friends.  Never  been  to  school.  What’s  home  ? Knows 
a broom’s  a broom,  and  knows  it’s  wicked  to  tell  a lie. 
Don’t  recollect  who  told  him  about  the  broom,  or  about 
the  lie,  but  knows  both.  Can’t  exactly  say  what’ll  be 
done  to  him  arter  he’s  dead  if  he  tells  a lie  to  the  gentle- 
man here,  but  believes  it’ll  be  something  weiy  bad  to 
punish  him,  and  serve  him  right — and  so  he’ll  tell  the 
truth.  ‘This  won’t  do,  gentlemen,’  says  the  coroner, 

with  a melancholy  shake  of  the  head ‘ Can't 

exactly  say  won’t  do,  you  know It’s  terrible  de- 

pravity. Put  the  boy  aside.’  Boy  put  aside  ; to  the 
great  edification  of  the  audience ; — especially  of  Little 
Swills,  the  Comic  Vocalist.” 


doorway  near  his  crossing,  a man  turned  to  look 
at  him,  and  came  back,  and,  having  questioned 
him  and  found  he  had  not  a friend  in  the  world, 
said,  “Neither  have  I.  Not  one!”  and  gave 
him  the  price  of  a supper  and  a nigitt’s  lodging. 
That  the  man  had  often  spoken  to  him  since, 
and  asked  him  if  he  slept  of  a night,  and  how  he 
bore  cold  and  hunger,  or  if  he  ever  wished  to 
die  ; and  would  say  in  j)assing  “ I am  as  poor 
as  you  to-day,  Jo”  when  he  had  no  money,  but 
when  he  had  any  would  always  give  some.  “ He 
wos  wery  good  to  me,”  says  the  boy,  wiping  his 
eyes  with  his  wretched  sleeve.  “ Wen  I see  him 
a-layin’  so  stritched  out  just  now,  I wished  he 
could  have  heerd  me  tell  him  so.  He  wos  werry 
good  to  me,  he  wos  ! ” The  inquest  over,  the 
body  is  flung  into  a pestiferous  churchyard  in 
the  next  street,  houses  overlooking  it  on  every 
side,  and  a reeking  little  tunnel  of  a court  giving 
access  to  its  iron  gate.  “ With  the  night,  comes 
a slouching  figure  through  the  tunnel-court,  to 
the  outside  of  the  iron  gate.  It  holds  the  gate 
with  its  hands,  and  looks  in  within  the  bars  j 
stands  looking  in,  for  a little  while.  It  then, 
with  an  old  broom  it  carries,  softly  sweeps  the 
step,  and  makes  the  archway  clean.  It  does  so, 
very  busily,  and  trimly;  looks  in  again,  a little 
while ; and  so  departs.”  These  are  among  the 
things  in  Dickens  that  cannot  be  forgotten;  and 
if  Bleak  House  had  many  more  faults  than  have 
been  found  in  it,  such  salt  and  savour  as  this 
might  freshen  it  for  some  generations. 

The  first  intention  was  to  have  made  Jo  more 
prominent  in  the  story,  and  its  earliest  title  was 
taken  from  the  tumbling  tenements  in  Chancery, 
“ Tom-all-Alone’s,”  where  he  finds  his  wretched 
habitation ; but  this  was  abandoned.  On  the 
other  hand,  Dickens  wasencouraged  and  strength- 
ened in  his  design  of  assailing  Chancery  abuses 
and  delays  by  receiving,  a few  days  after  the  ap- 
pearance of  his  first  number,  a striking  pamphlet 
on  the  subject  containing  details  so  apposite 
that  he  took  from  them,  without  change  in  any 
material  point,  the  memorable  case  related  in 
his  fifteenth  chapter.  Any  one  who  examines 
the  tract  will  see  how  exactly  true  is  the  re- 
ference to  it  made  by  Dickens  in  his  preface. 
“ The  case  of  Gridley  is  in  no  essential  altered 
from  one  of  actual  occurrence,  made  public  by  a 
disinterested  person  who  was  professionally  ac- 
quainted with  the  whole  of  the  monstrous  wrong 
from  beginning  to  end.”  The  suit,  of  which  all 
particulars  are  given,  affected  a single  farm,  in 
value  not  more  than  ^^1200,  but  all  that  its 
owner  possessed  in  the  world,  against  which  a 
bill  had  been  filed  for  a ^£300  legacy  left  in  the 
will  bequeathing  the  farm.  In  reality  there  was 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  HICI^ENS. 


284 


only  one  defendant,  but  in  the  bill,  by  the  rule 
of  the  Court,  there  were  seventeen  ; and,  after 
two  years  had  been  occupied  over  the  seventeen 
answers,  everything  had  to  begin  over  again 
because  an  eighteenth  had  been  accidentally 
omitted.  “ What  a mockery  of  justice  this  is,” 
says  Mr.  Challinor,  “ the  facts  speak  for  them- 
selves, and  I can  personally  vouch  for  their 
accuracy.  The  costs  already  incurred  in  re- 
ference to  this  £,2>°o  legacy  are  not  less  than 
from  ^800  to  ;^9oo,  and  the  parties  are  no 
forwarder.  Already  near  five  years  have  passed 
by,  and  the  plaintiff  would  be  glad  to  give  up 
his  chance  of  the  legacy  if  he  could  escape  from 
his  liability  to  costs,  while  the  defendants  who 
own  the  little  farm  left  by  the  testator,  have 
scarce  any  other  prospect  before  them  than 
ruin.” 

“ I wish  you  would  look,”  Dickens  wrote  on 
the  20th  of  January  1854,  “at  the  enclosed 
titles  for  the  Household  IVbrds  story,  between 
this  and  two  o’clock  or  so,  when  I will  call.  It 
is  my  usual  day,  you  observe,  on  which  I have 
jotted  them  down — Friday  ! It  seems  to  me 
that  there  are  three  very  good  ones  among  them. 
I should  like  to  know  whether  you  hit  upon  the 
same.”  On  the  paper  enclosed  was  written : 

I.  According  to  Cocker.  2.  Prove  it.  3.  Stub- 
born Things.  4.  Mr.  Gradgrind’s  Facts.  5. 
The  Grindstone.  6.  Hard  Times.  7.  Two  and 
Two  are  Four.  8.  Something  Tangible.  9. 
Our  Hard-headed  Friend.  10.  Rust  and  Dust. 

II.  Simple  Arithmetic.  12.  A Matter  of  Cal- 
culation. 13.  A Mere  Question  of  Figures. 
14.  The  Gradgrind  Philosophy.  The  three  se- 
lected by  me  were  2,  6,  and  ii  ; the  three  that 
were  his  own  favourites  were  6,  13,  and  14; 
and  as  6 had  been  chosen  by  both,  that  title 
was  taken. 

It  was  the  first  story  written  by  him  for  his 
weekly  periodical ; and  in  the  course  of  it  the 
old  troubles  of  the  Clock  came  back,  with  the 
difference  that  the  greater  brevity  of  the  weekly 
portions  made  it  easier  to  write  them  up  to 
time,  but  much  more  difficult  to  get  sufficient 
interest  into  each.  “ The  difficulty  of  the 
space,”  he  wrote  after  a few  weeks’  trial,  “ is 
CRUSHING.  Nobody  can  have  an  idea  of  it  who 
has  not  had  an  experience  of  patient  fiction- 
writing with  some  elbow-room  always,  and  open 
places  in  perspective.  In  this  form,  with  any 
kind  of  regard  to  the  current  number,  there  is 
absolutely  no  such  thing.”  He  went  on,  how- 
ever ; and,  of  the  two  designs  he  started  with, 
accomplished  one  very  perfectly  and  the  other 
at  least  partially.  He  more  than  doubled  the 


circulation  of  his  journal ; and  he  wrote  a story 
which,  though  not  among  his  best,  contains, 
things  as  characteristic  as  any  he  has  written.  I 
may  not  go  as  far  as  Mr.  Ruskin  in  giving  it  a 
high  place;  but  to  anything  falling  from  that 
writer,  however  one  may  differ  from  him,  great 
respect  is  due,  and  every  word  here  said  of 
Dickens’s  intention  is  in  the  most  strict  sense 
just.  “ The  essential  value  and  truth  of 
Dickens’s  writings,”  he  says,  “have  been  un- 
wisely lost  sight  of  by  many  thoughtful  per- 
sons, merely  because  he  presents  his  truth  with 
some  colour  of  caricature.  Unwisely,  because 
Dickens’s  caricature,  though  often  gross,  is 
never  mistaken.  Allowing  for  his  manner  of 
telling  them,  the  things  he  tells  us  are  always  true. 
I wish  that  he  could  think  it  right  to  limit  his 
brilliant  exaggeration  to  works  written  only  for 
public  amusement  ; and  when  he  takes  up  a 
subject  of  high  national  importance,  such  as  that 
which  he  handled  in  Hard  Times,  that  he  would 
use  severer  and  more  accurate  analysis.  The 
usefulness  of  that  work  (to  my  mind,  in  several 
respects,  the  greatest  he  has  written)  is  with 
many  persons  seriously  diminished,  because  Mr. 
Bounderby  is  a dramatic  monster  instead  of  a 
characteristic  example  of  a worldly  master  ; and 
Stephen  Blackpool  a dramatic  perfection,  in-, 
stead  of  a characteristic  example  of  an  honest 
workman.  But  let  us  not  lose  the  use  of 
Dickens’s  wit  and  insight,  because  he  chooses 
to  speak  in  a circle  of  stage  fire.  He  is  entirely 
right  in  his  main  drift  and  purpose  in  every 
book  he  has  written ; and  all  of  them,  but  espe- 
cially Hard  Times,  should  be  studied  with  close 
and  earnest  care  by  persons  interested  in  social 
questions.  They  will  find  much  that  is  partial, 
and,  because  partial,  apparently  unjust ; but  if 
they  examine  all  the  evidence  on  the  other  side, 
which  Dickens  seems  to  overlook,  it  will  appear, 
after  all  their  trouble,  that  his  view  was  the 
finally  right  one,  grossly  and  sharply  told.”  The 
best  points  in  it,  out  of  the  circle  of  stage  fire 
(an  expression  of  wider  application  to  this  part 
of  Dickens’s  life  than  its  inventor  supposed  it  to 
be),  were  some  sketches  among  the  riding-circus 
people  and  the  Bounderby  household  ; but  it  is 
a wise  hint  of  Mr.  Ruskin’s  that  there  may  be, 
in  the  drift  of  a story,  truths  of  sufficient  impor- 
tance to  set  against  defects  of  workmansliip  ; 
and  here  they  challenged  wide  attention.  You 
cannot  train  any  one  jn-oiieily,  unless  you  culti- 
vate the  fancy,  and  allow  fair  scope  to  the  affec- 
tions. You  cannot  govern  men  on  a principle 
of  averages  ; ami  to  buy  in  the  cheapest  and  sell 
in  the  dearest  market  is  not  the  summum  lonttm 
of  life.  You  cannot  treat  the  working  man 


HOME  INCIDENTS. 


285 


fiiirly  unless,  in  dealing  with  his  wrongs  and  his 
delusions,  you  take  equally  into  account  the 
simplicity  and  tenacity  of  his  nature,  arising 
partly  from  limited  knowledge,  but  more  from 
honesty  and  singleness  of  intention.  Fiction 
cannot  prove  a case,  but  it  can  express  forcibly 
a righteous  sentiment ; and  this  is  here  done  un- 
sparingly upon  matters  of  universal  concern. 
The  book  was  finished  at  Boulogne  in  the  middle 
of  Jul)q  and  is  inscribed  to  Carlyle. 

An  American  admirer  accounted  for  the  viva- 
city of  the  circus-scenes  by  declaring  that 
Dickens  had  “arranged  with  the  master  of 
Astley’s  Circus  to  spend  many  hours  behind  the 
scenes  with  the  riders  and  among  the  horses/’ 
a thing  just  as  likely  as  that  he  Avent  into  train- 
ing as  a stroller  to  qualify  for  Mr.  Crummies  in 
Nicklehy.  Such  successes  belonged  to  the  ex- 
periences of  his  youth ; he  had  nothing  to  add 
to  what  his  marvellous  observation  had  made 
familiar  from  almost  childish  days ; and  the 
glimpses  we  get  of  them  in  the  Sketches  by  Boz 
are  in  these  points  as  perfect  as  anything  his 
later  experience  could  suppl)^  There  was  one 
thing  nevertheless  which  the  choice  of  his  sub- 
ject made  him  anxious  to  verify  while  Hard 
Times  was  in  hand  ; and  this  was  a strike  in  a 
manufacturing  town.  He  had  gone  to  Preston 
to  see  one  at  the  end  of  January,  and  was  some- 
what disappointed.  “I  am  afraid  I shall  not  be 
able  to  get  much  here.  Except  the  crowds  at 
the  street-corners  reading  the  placards  pro  and 
con ; and  the  cold  absence  of  smoke  from  the 
mill-chimneys  ; there  is  very  little  in  the  streets 
to  make  the  town  remarkable.  I am  told  that 
the  people  ‘ sit  at  home  and  mope.’  The  dele- 
gates with  the  money  from  the  neighbouring 
places  come  in  to-day  to  report  the  amounts 
they  bring  : and  to-morrow  the  people  are  paid. 
When  I have  seen  both  these  ceremonies,  I shall 
return.  It  is  a nasty  place  (1  thought  it  was  a 
model  town)  ; and  I am  in  the  Bull  Hotel,  be- 
fore which  some  time  ago  the  people  assembled 
supposing  the  masters  to  be  here,  and  on  de- 
manding to  have  them  out  were  remonstrated 
with  by  the  landlady  in  person.  I saw  the 
account  in  an  Italian  paper,  in  rvhich  it  rvas 
stated  that  ‘ the  populace  then  environed  the 
Palazzo  Bull,  until  the  padrona  of  the  Palazzo 
heroically  appeared  at  one  of  the  upper  windows 
and  addressed  them  ! ’ One  can  hardly  conceive 
anything  less  likely  to  be  represented  to  an 
Italian  mind  by  this  description,  than  the  old, 
grubby,  smoky,  mean,  intensely  formal  red  brick 
house  with  a narrorv  gateway  and  a dingy  yard, 
to  which  it  applies.  At  the  theatre  last  night  I 
saw  Hamlet,  and  should  have  done  better  to 


‘ sit  at  home  and  mope  ’ like  the  idle  workmen. 
In  the  last  scene,  Laertes  on  being  asked  how  it 
was  with  him  replied  (verbatim)  ‘Why,  like  a 
Avoodcock — on  account  of  my  treachery.’  ” 


II. 


HOME  INCIDENTS. 


1853—1854—1855. 

HE  first  number  of  Bleak  House  had 
appeared  in  March  1852,  and  its 
sale  Avas  mentioned  in  the  same 
letter  from  Tavistock  House  (7th 
of  March)  Avhich  told  of  his  troubles 
in  the  tale  at  its  outset,  and  of  other 
anxieties  incident  to  the  common  lot  and 
inseparable  equally  from  its  joys  and 
sorroAvs,  through  AALich-  his  life  Avas  passing  at 
the  time.  “ My  Highgate  journey  yesterday  was 
a sad  one.  Sad  to  think  how  all  journeys  tend 
that  Avay.  I Avent  up  to  the  cemetery  to  look 
for  a piece  of  ground.  In  no  hope  of  a Govern- 
ment bill,  and  in  a foolish  dislike  to  leaving  the 
little  child  shut  up  in  a vault  there,  I think  of 

pitching  a tent  under  the  sky Nothing 

has  taken  place  here  : but  I believe,  every  hour, 
that  it  must  next  hour.  Wild  ideas  are  upon 
me  of  going  to  Paris — Rouen — Switzerland — 
somewhere — and  Avriting  the  remaining  tAvo- 
thirds  of  the  next  No.  aloft  in  some  queer  inn 
room.  I have  been  hanging  over  it,  and  have 
got  restless.  Want  a change  I think.  Stupid. 

We  Avere  at  30,000  Avhen  I last  heard I 

am  sorry  to  say  that  after  all  kinds  of  evasions, 
I am  obliged  to  dine  at  LansdoAvne  House  to- 


affair  Avill  come  off 
excuse ! I enclose 


morroAv.  But  maybe  the 
to-night  and  give  me  an 
proofs  of  No.  2.  BroAvne  has  done  Skimpole, 
and  helped  to  make  him  singularly  unlike  the 
great  original.  Look  it  over  and  say  Avhat 

occurs  to  you Don’t  you  think  Mrs. 

Gaskell  charming?  With  one  ill-considered 
thing  that  looks  like  a AA'ant  of  natural  percep- 
tion, I think  it  masterly.”  His  last  allusion  is 
to  the  story  by  a delightful  writer  then  appearing 
in  Household  Words  ; and  of  the  others  it  only 
needs  to  say  that  the  family  affair  Avhich  might 
have  excused  his  absence  at  the  LansdoAvne 
dinner  did  not  come  off  until  four  days  later. 
On  the  13th  of  March  his  last  child  Avas  born  ; 
and  the  boy,  his  seventh  son,  bears  his  god- 
father’s distinguished  name,  EdAvard  Bulwer 
Lytton. 


286 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


The  inability  to  “•  grind  sparks  out  of  this  dull 
blade,”  as  he  characterized  his  present  labour  at 
E/eak  House,  still  fretting  him,  he  struck  out  a 
scheme  for  Paris.  “ I could  not  get  to  Switzer- 
land very  well  at  this  time  of  year.  The  Jura 
would  be  covered  with  snow.  And  if  I went  to 
Geneva  I don’t  know  where  I might  7iot  go  to.” 
It  ended  at  last  in  a flight  to  Dover;  but  he 
found  time  before  he  left,  amid  many  occupa- 
tions and  some  anxieties,  for  a good-natured 
journey  to  Walworth  to  see  a youth  rehearse 
who  was  supposed  to  have  talents  for  the  stage. 


Tavistock  House. 


and  he  was  able  to  gladden  Mr.  Toole’s  friends 
i by  thinking  favourably  of  his  chances  of  success. 
“ I remember  what  1 once  myself  wanted  in  that 
way,”  he  said,  “and  I should  like  to  serve  him.” 
At  one  of  the  last  dinners  in  Tavistock  House 
before  his  departure,  Mr.  Watson  of  Rocking- 
ham was  present;  and  he  was  hardly  settled  in 
Camden-crescent,  Dover,  when  he  had  news  of 
the  death  of  that  excellent  friend.  “ Poor  dear 
i Watson  ! It  was  tliis  day  two  weeks  when  you 
I rode  with  us  and  he  dined  with  us.  We  all  re- 

I marked  after  he  had  gone  how  happy  he  seemed 


to  have  got  over  his  election  troubles,  and  how 
cheerful  he  was.  He  was  full  of  Christmas 
plans  for  Rockingham,  and  was  very  anxious 
that  we  should  get  up  a little  French  piece  I had 
been  telling  him  the  plot  of.  He  went  abroad 
next  day  to  join  Mrs.  Watson  and  the  children 
at  Homburg,  and  then  go  to  Lausanne,  where 
they  had  taken  a house  for  a month.  He  was 
seized  at  Plomburg  with  violent  internal  inflam- 
mation, and  died — without  much  pain — in  four 

days I u'as  so  fond  of  him  that  I am 

sorry  you  didn’t  know  him  better.  I believe  he 
was  as  thoroughly  good  and  true  a man  as  ever 
j lived ; and  I am  sure  I can  have  no  greater 
afl'ection  for  him  than  he  felt  for  me.  M'hen  I 
think  of  that  bright  house,  and  his  fine  simple 
^ honest  heart,  both  so  open  to  me,  the  blank  and 
; loss  are  like  a dream.”  Other  deaths  followed.  i 
I ■■  Poor  d’Orsay  ! ” he  wrote  after  only  seven  i 
days  (8th  of  August).  “ It  is  a tremendous  con-  1 
I sideration  that  friends  should  fall  around  us  in 
I such  awful  numbers  as  we  attain  middle  life, 
i What  a field  of  battle  it  is  ! ” Nor  had  another 

■ month  quite  passed  before  he  lost,  in  Mrs.  Mac- 
ready,  a very  dear  family  friend.  “Ah  me  ! ah 
me  !”  he  wrote.  “'Phis  tremendous  sickle  cer- 
tainly does  cut  deep  into  the  surrounding  corn, 
when  one’s  own  small  blade  has  ripened.  Put 
this  is  all  a Dream,  may  be,  and  death  will 
wake  us.’’ 

Able  at  last  to  settle  to  his  work,  he  stayed  in 
Dover  three  months ; and  early  in  October, 

■ sending  home  his  fiunily  caravan,  crossed  to 
! Boulogne  to  try  it  as  a resort  lor  seaside  holi- 
day. “ I never  saw  a better  instance  of  our 
countrymen  than  this  place.  Because  it  is  ac- 
cessible it  is  genteel  to  say  it  is  of  no  character, 
(]uite  Ifnglish,  nothing  continental  about  it,  and 
so  forth.  It  is  as  quaint,  ])icturcsque,  good  a 
l)lace  as  I know  ; the  boatmen  and  fishing- 
people  quite  a race  apart,  and  some  ot  their 
villages  as  good  as  the  fishing-villages  on  the 
Mediterranean.  The  Haute  Ville,  with  a walk 

j all  round  it  on  the  ramjrarts,  charming.  'I’he 
country  walks,  delightful.  It  is  the  best  mix-  i 
! tui'e  of  town  and  country  (with  sea  air  into  the 
bargain)  I ever  saw;  everything  cb.eap,  every- 
thing good  ; and  please  Cotl  I shall  be  writing 
on  those  said  ramparts  next  July  ! ” 

Before  the  year  closed,  the  time  to  which  his 
publishing  arrangements  with  Messrs.  Bradbury 
and  J’ivans  were  limited  had  exiiircd,  but  at  his 
suggestion  the  fourth  share  in  such  books  as  he 
might  write,  which  they  had  now  received  for 
eight  years,  was  continued  to  them  on  llie 
understanding  that  the  iniblishers’  percentage 
should  no  longer  be  charged  in  the  partnership 


accounts,  and  with  a power  reserved  to  himself 
to  withdraw  when  he  pleased.  In  the  new  year 
his  first  adventure  was  an  ovation  in  Birming- 
ham, where  a silver-gilt  salver  and  a diamond 
ring  were  presented  to  him,  as  well  for  eloquent 
service  specially  rendered  to  the  Institution,  as 
in  general  testimony  of  “ varied  literary  acquire- 
ments, genial  philosojrhy,  and  high  moral  teach- 
ing.” A great  banquet  followed  on  Twelfth 
Night,  made  memorable  by  an  offer  to  give  a 
couple  of  readings  from  his  books  at  the  follow- 
ing Christmas,  in  aid  of  the  new  Midland  Insti- 
tute. It  might  seem  to  have  been  drawn  from 
him  as  a grateful  return  for  the  enthusiastic 
greeting  of  his  entertainers,  but  it  was  in  his 
mind  before  he  left  London.  It  was  his  first 
formal  undertaking  to  read  in  public. 

His  eldest  son  had  now  left  Eton,  and  the 
boy’s  wishes  pointing  at  the  time  to  a mercantile 
career,  he  was  sent  to  Leipzig  for  completion  of 
his  education.  At  this  date  it  seemed  to  me 
that  the  overstrain  of  attempting  too  much, 
brought  upon  him  by  the  necessities  of  his 
weekly  periodical,  became  first  apparent  in 
Dickens.  Not  unfrequently  a complaint  strange 
upon  his  lips  fell  from  him.  “ Hypochondriacal 
whisperings  tell  me  that  I am  rather  over- 
worked. The  spring  does  not  seem  to  fly  back 
again  directly,  as  it  always  did  when  I put  my 
own  work  aside,  and  had  nothing  else  to  do. 
Met  I have  everything  to  keep  me  going  with  a 
brave  heart.  Heaven  knows  ! ” Courage  and 
hopefulness  he  might  well  derive  from  the  in- 
creasing sale  of  Bleak  House,  which  had  risen  to 
nearly  forty  thousand ; but  he  could  no  longer 
bear  easily  what  he  carried  so  lightly  of  old,  and 
enjoyments  with  work  were  too  much  for  him. 

What  with  Bleak  House  and  Household  Words 
and  Child's  History”  (he  dictated  from  week  to 
week  the  papers  which  formed  that  little  book, 
and  cannot  be  said  to  have  quite  hit  the  mark 
with  it),  “and  Miss  Coutts’s  Home,  and  the  in- 
vitations to  feasts  and  festivals,  I really  feel  as 
if  my  head  would  split  like  a fired  shell  if  I 
remained  here.”  He  tried  Brighton  first,  but 
did  not  find  it  answer  and  returned.  A few 
days  of  unalloyed  enjoyment  were  afterwards 
given  to  the  visit  of  his  excellent  American 
friend  Felton  ; and  on  the  13th  of  June  he  was 
again  in  Boulogne,  thanking  heaven  for  escape 
from  a break-down.  “ If  I had  substituted  any- 
body's knowledge  of  myself  for  my  own,  and 
lingered  in  London,  I never  could  have  got 
through.” 

What  befell  him  in  Boulogne  will  be  given, 
with  the  incidents  of  his  second  and  third  sum- 
mer visits  to  the  place,  on  a later  page.  He 


completed  Bleak  House  by  the  third  week  of 
August,  and  it  was  resolved  to  celebrate  the 
event  by  a two  months’  trip  to  Italy,  in  com- 
pany with  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins  and  Mr.  Augustus 
Egg.  The  start  was  to  be  made  from  Boulogne 
in  the  middle  of  October,  when  he  would  send 
his  family  home ; and  he  described  the  inter- 
vening weeks  as  a fearful  “ reaction  and  prostra- 
tion of  laziness  ” only  broken  by  the  Child's 
History.  At  the  end  of  September  he  wrote  : 
“ I finished  the  little  History  yesterday,  and  am 
trying  to  think  of  something  for  the  Christmas 
number.  After  which  I shall  knockoff;  having 
had  quite  enough  to  do,  small  as  it  would  have 
seemed  to  me  at  any  other  time,  since  I finished 
Bleak  House.”  He  added,  a week  before  his 
departure  ; “ I get  letters  from  Genoa  and  Lau- 
sanne as  if  I were  going  to  stay  in  each  place  at 
least  a month.  If  I were  to  measure  my  deserts 
by  people’s  remembrance  of  me,  I should  be  a 
prodigy  of  intolerability.  Have  recovered  my 
Italian,  which  I had  all  but  forgotten,  and  am 
one  entire  and  perfect  chrysolite  of  idleness.” 
From  this  trip,  of  which  the  incidents  have 
an  interest  independent  of  my  ordinary  narra- 
tive, Dickens  was  home  again  in  the  middle  of 
December  1853,  and  kept  his  promise  to  his 
Birmingham  friends  by  reading  in  their  Town 
Hall  his  Christmas  Carol  on  the  27  th,  and  his 
Cricket  on  the  Hearth  on  the  29th.  The  enthu- 
siasm was  great,  and  he  consented  to  read  his 
Carol  a second  time,  on  Friday  the  30th,  if 
seats  were  reserved  for  working  men  at  prices 
within  their  means.  The  result  was  an  addition 
of  between  four  and  five  hundred  pounds  to  the 
funds  for  establishment  of  the  new  Institute; 
and  a prettily  worked  flower-basket  in  silver, 
presented  to  Mrs.  Dickens,  commemorated 
these  first  public  readings  “ to  nearly  six  thou- 
sand people,”  and  the  design  they  had  gene- 
rously helped.  Other  applications  then  followed 
to  such  extent  that  limits  to  compliance  had  to 
be  put;  and  a letter  of  the  i6th  of  May  1854  is 
one  of  many  that  express  both  the  difficulty  in 
which  he  found  himself,  and  his  much  desired 
expedient  for  solving  it.  “ The  objection  you 
suggest  to  paid  public  lecturing  does  not  strike 
me  at  all.  It  is  worth  consideration,  but  I do 
not  think  there  is  anything  in  it.  On  the  con- 
trary, if  the  lecturing  rvould  have  any  motive 
power  at  all  (like  my  poor  father  this,  in  the 
sound  !)  I believe  it  would  tend  the  other  way. 
In  the  Colchester  matter  I had  already  received 
a letter  from  a Colchester  magnate ; to  whom  I 
had  honestly  replied  that  I stood  pledged  to 
Christmas  readings  at  Bradford  and  at  Reading, 
and  could  in  no  kind  of  reason  do  more  in  the 


public  way.”  The  promise  to  the  people  of 
Reading  was  for  Talfourd’s  sake  ; the  other  was 
given  after  the  Birmingham  nights,  when  an 
institute  in  Bradford  asked  similar  help,  and 
offered  a fee  of  fifty  pounds.  At  first  this  was 
entertained ; but  was  abandoned,  with  some 
reluctance,  upon  the  argument  that  to  become 
publicly  a reader  must  alter  without  improving 
his  position  publicly  as  a writer,  and  that  it  was 
a change  to  be  justified  only  when  the  higher 
calling  should  have  failed  of  the  old  success. 
'I'hus  yielding  for  the  time,  he  nevertheless  soon 
found  the  question  rising  again  with  the  same 
importunity ; his  own  position  to  it  being  always 
that  of  a man  assenting  against  his  will  that  it 
should  rest  in  abeyance.  But  nothing  farther 
was  resolved  on  yet.  The  readings  mentioned 
came  off  as  promised,  in  aid  of  public  objects; 
and  besides  others  two  years  later  for  the  family 
of  a friend,  he  had  given  the  like  liberal  help  to 
institutes  in  Folkestone,  Chatham,  and  again  in 
Birmingham,  Peterborough,  Sheffield,  Coventry, 
and  Edinburgh,  before  the  question  settled 
itself  finally  in  the  announcement  for  paid 
public  readings  issued  by  him  in  1858. 

Carrying  memory  back  to  his  home  in  the 
first  half  of  1854,  there  are  few  things  that  rise 
more  pleasantly  in  connection  with  it  than  the 
children’s  theatricals.  These  began  with  the 
first  Twelfth  Night  at  Tavistock  House,  and 
were  renewed  until  the  principal  actors  ceased 
to  be  children.  The  best  of  the  performances 
were  Tom  Thumb  and  Fortunio,  in  ’54  and  ’55 ; 

I Dickens  now  joining  first  in  the  revel,  and  Mr. 

Mark  Lemon  bringing  into  it  his  own  clever 
' children  and  a very  mountain  of  child-pleasing 
' fun  in  himself.  Dickens  had  become  very  inti- 
mate with  him,  and  his  merry  genial  ways  had 
given  him  unbounded  popularity  with  the 
j “ young  ’uns,”  who  had  no  such  favourite  as 
I “ Uncle  Mark.”  In  Fielding’s  burlesque  he 
was  the  giantess  Glumdalca,  and  Dickens  was 
' the  Ghost  of  Gaffer  Thumb ; the  names  by 
which  they  respectively  appeared  being  the 
Infant  Phenomenon  and  the  modern  Garrick. 
But  the  younger  actors  carried  off  the  palm. 

! There  was  a Lord  Grizzle,  at  whose  ballad  of 
\ Miss  Villikins,  introduced  by  desire,  Thackeray 
j rolled  off  his  seat  in  a burst  of  laughter  that 
became  absurdly  contagious.  Yet  even  this, 
with  hardly  less  fun  from  the  Noodles,  Doodles, 
and  King  Arthurs,  was  not  so  good  as  the 
prett}',  fantastic,  comic  grace  of  Dollalolla, 
Huncamunca,  and  Tom.  The  girls  wore 
steadily  the  grave  airs  irresistible  when  put  on 
by  little  children ; and  an  actor  not  out  of  his 
fourth  year,  who  went  tlirough  the  comic  songs 


and  the  tragic  exploits  without  a wrong  note  or 
a victim  unslain,  represented  the  small  helmeted 

hero.  He  was  in  the  bills  as  Mr.  H , but 

bore  in  fact  the  name  of  the  illustrious  author 
whose  conception  he  embodied ; and  who  cer-  ! 
tainly  would  have  hugged  him  for  Tom’s  open- 
ing song,  delivered  in  the  arms  of  Huncamunca, 
if  he  could  have  forgiven  the  later  master  in  his- 
own  craft  for  having  composed  it  afresh  to  the 
air  of  a ditty  then  wildly  popular  at  the  “ Coal 
Hole.”  The  encores  were  frequent,  and  for  the 
most  part  the  little  fellow  responded  to  them  ; 
but  the  misplaced  enthusiasm  that  took  similar 
form  at  the  heroic  intensity  with  which  he 
stabbed  Dollalolla,  he  rebuked  by  going  gravely 
on  to  the  close.  His  Fortunio,  the  next  Twelfth  j 
Night,  was  not  so  great ; yet  when,  as  a prelude  I 
to  getting  the  better  of  the  Dragon,  he  adul-  j 
terated  his  drink  (Mr.  Lemon  played  the  | 
Dragon)  with  sherry,  the  sly  relish  with  which 
he  watched  the  demoralization,  by  this  means,  [ 
of  his  formidable  adversary  into  a helpless  im-  | 
becility,  was  perfect.  Here  Dickens  played  the  1 
testy  old  Baron,  and  took  advantage  of  the  ex- 
citement against  the  Czar  raging  in  1855 
denounce  him  (in  a song)  as  no  other  than  own 
cousin  to  the  very  Bear  that  Fortunio  had  gone 
forth  to  subdue.  He  depicted  him  in  his  deso- 
lation of  autocracy,  as  the  Robinson  Crusoe  of 
absolute  state,  who  had  at  his  court  many  ,a  1 

show-day  and  many  a high-day,  but  hadn’t  in  | 

all  his  dominions  a Friday.  The  bill,  which  i 
attributed  these  interpolations  to  “ the  Dramatic 
Poet  of  the  Establishment,’’  deserves  allusion 
also  for  the  fun  of  the  six  large-lettered  an- 
nouncements which  stood  at  the  head  of  it,  and 
could  not  have  been  bettered  by  Mr.  Crummies 
himself.  “ Re-engagement  of  that  irresistible 
comedian”  (the  performer  of  l.ord  Grizzle) 
“Mr.  Ainger  ! ” “Reappearance  of  Mr.  H.  I 
who  created  so  powerful  an  impression  last  | 
year!”  “Return  of  Mr.  Charles  Dickens 
Junior  from  his  German  engagements  I ” “ En- 

gagement of  Miss  Kate,  who  declined  the  muni- 
ficent offers  of  the  Management  last  season  ! ” 
“Mr.  Passe',  Mr.  Mudperiod,  JMr.  Measly  Ser- 
vile, and  Mr.  Wilkini  Collini  1 ” “First  appear- 
ance on  any  stage  of  Mr.  Plornishmaroonti- 
goonter  (who  has  been  kept  out  of  bed  at  a vast 
expense).”  The  last  performer  mentioned  was 
yet  at  some  distance  from  the  third  year  of  his 
age.  Dickens  was  Mr.  Passe. 

The  home  incidents  of  the  summer  and  au- 
tumn of  1855  mentioned  briell)'.  It 

was  a year  ot  much  unsettled  iliscontent  with 
him,  and  upon  return  from  a short  .trip  to  Paris 
with  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins,  he  Hung  himself  rather 


HOME  INCIDENTS. 


hotly  into  agitation  with  the  administrative  re- 
formers, ami  spoke  at  one  of  the  great  meetings 
in  Drury-lane  Theatre.  ‘‘  Generally  I quite  agree 
with  you  that  they  hartlly  know  what  to  be  at  •, 
but  it  is  an  immensely  dilficult  subject  to  start, 
and  they  must  have  e\'ery  allowance.  At  any 
rate,  it  is  not  by  leaving  them  alone  and  giving 
them  no  help,  that  they  can  be  urged  on 
to  success.'’  In  the  following  month  (April) 
he  took  occasion,  even  from  the  chair  of  the 
General  'Fheatrical  Fund,  to  give  renewed  ex- 
pression to  political  dissatisfactions.  “ The 
Government  hit  took  immensely;  but  I’m  afraid 
to  look  at  the  report,  these  things  are  so  ill 
done.”  In  the  summer  he  threw  open  to  many 
friends  his  Tavistock  House  Theatre,  having 
secured  for  its  “ lessee  and  manager  Mr.  Crum- 
mies ; ” for  its  poet  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins,  in  “ an 
entirely  new  and  ol'iginal  domestic  melodrama 
and  for  its  scene-painter  “Mr.  Stanfield,  R.A.” 
The  Lighthouse,  by  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins,  was  then 
produced,  its  actors  being  Mr.  Crummies  the 
manager  (Dickens  in  other  words),  the  Author 
of  the  play,  Mr.  Lemon,  and  Mr.  Egg,  and  the 
manager’s  sister-in-law  and  eldest  daughter.  It 
was  followed  by  the  Guild  farce  of  Mr.  Night- 
ingale's Diary,  in  which,  besides  the  performers 
named,  and  Dickens  in  his  old  personation  part, 
the  manager’s  youngest  daughter  and  Mr.  Frank 
Stone  assisted.  The  success  w’as  wonderful; 
and  in  the  three  delighted  audiences  who 
crowded  to  what  the  bills  described  as  “ the 
smallest  theatre  in  the  world,”  were  not  a few 
of  the  notabilities  of  London.  Mr.  Carlyle 
compared  Dickens’s  wild  picturesqueness  in  the 
old  lighthouse  keeper  to  the  famous  figure  in 
Nicholas  Poussin’s  bacchanalian  dance  in  the 
National  Gallery;  and  at  one  of  the  joyous 
suppers  that  followed  on  each  night  of  the  play. 
Lord  Campbell  told  the  company  that  he  had 
much  rather  have  written  Pickwick  than  be 
Chief  Justice  of  England  and  a peer  of  Parlia- 
ment. 

Then  came  the  beginning  of  Nobody's  Fault, 
as  Little  Dorrit  continued  to  be  called  by  him 
up  to  the  eve  of  it’s  publication ; a flight  to 
Folkestone,  to  help  his  sluggish  fancy;  and  his 
return  to  London  in  October,  to  preside  at  a 
dinner  to  Thackeray  on  his  going  to  lecture  in 
America.  It  rvas  a muster  of  more  than  sixty 
admiring  entertainers,  and  Dickens’s  speech  gave 
happy  expression  to  the  spirit  that  animated  all, 
telling  Thackeray  not  alone  how  much  his 
friendship  was  prized  by  those  present,  and  how 
proud  they  were  of  his  genius,  but  offering  him 
in  the  name  of  the  tens  of  thousands  absent  who 
had  never  touched  his  hand  nor  seen  his  face. 


289 


life-long  thanks  for  the  treasures  of  mirth,  wit, 
and  wisdom  within  the  yellow-covered  numbers 
of  Pendennis  and  Vanity  Fair.  Peter  Cunning- 
ham, one  of  the  sons  of  Allan,  was  secretary  to 
the  banquet;  and  for  many  pleasures  given  to 
the  subject  of  this  memoir,  who  had  a hearty 
regard  for  him,  should  have  a few  words  to  his 
memory. 

His  presence  was  always  welcome  to  Dickens, 
and  indeed  to  all  who  knew  him,  for  his  relish 
of  social  life  was  great,  and  something  of  his 
keen  enjoyment  could  not  but  be  shared  by  his 
company.  His  geniality  would  have  carried  with 
it  a pleasurable  glow  even  if  it  had  stood  alone, 
and  it  was  invigorated  by  very  considerable 
acquirements.  He  had  some  knowledge  of  the 
works  of  eminent  authors  and  artists ; and  he 
had  an  eager  interest  in  their  lives  and  haunts, 
which  he  had  made  the  subject  of  minute  and 
novel  inquiry.  This  store  of  knowledge  gave 
substance  to  his  talk,  yet  never  interrupited  his 
buoyancy  and  pleasantry,  because  only  intro- 
duced when  called  for,  and  not  made  matter  of 
parade  or  display.  But  the  happy  combination 
of  qualities  that  rendered  him  a favourite  com- 
panion, and  won  him  many  friends,  proved  in 
the  end  injurious  to  himself.  He  had  clone 
much  while  young  in  certain  line.s  of  investiga- 
tion which  he  had  made  almost  his  own,  and 
there  was  every  promise  that,  in  the  department 
of  biographical  and  literary  research,  he  would 
have  produced  much  weightier  works  with  ad- 
vancing years.  This,  however,  was  not  to  be. 
The  fascinations  of  good  fellowship  encroached 
more  and  more  upon  literary  pursuits,  until  he 
nearly  abandoned  his  former  favourite  studies, 
and  sacrificed  all  the  deeper  purposes  of  his  life 
to  the  present  temptation  of  a festive  hour. 
Then  his  health  gave  way,  and  he  became  lost 
to  friends  as  well  as  to  literature.  But  the  im- 
pression of  the  bright  and  amiable  intercourse 
of  his  better  time  survived,  and  his  old  associates 
never  ceased  to  think  of  Peter  Cunningham  with 
regret  and  kindness. 

Dickens  went  to  Paris  early  in  October,  and 
at  its  close  was  brought  again  to  London  by  the 
sudden  death  of  a friend,  much  deplored  by 
himself,  and  still  more  so  by  a distinguished 
lady  who  had  his  loyal  service  at  all  times.  An 
incident  before  his  return  to  France  is  worth 
brief  relation.  He  had  sallied  out  for  one  of  his 
night  walks,  full  of  thoughts  of  his  story,  one 
wintry  rainy  evening  (the  8th  of  November), 
and  “pulled  himself  up,”  outside  the  door  of 
WhitechapelWorkhouse,  at  a strange  sight  which 
arrested  him  there.  Against  the  dreary  enclo- 
sure of  the  house  were  leaning,  in  the  midst  of 


290 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


the  downpouring  rain  and  storm,  what  seemed 
to  be  seven  heaps  of  rags  : “ dumb,  wet,  silent 
horrors  ” he  described  them,  “ sphinxes  set  up 
against  that  dead  wall,  and  no  one  likely  to  be 
at  the  pains  of  solving  them  until  the  General 
Overthrow.”  He  sent  in  his  card  to  the  Master. 
Against  him  there  was  no  ground  of  complaint ; 
he  gave  prompt  personal  attention ; but  the 
casual  ward  was  full,  and  there  was  no  help. 
The  rag-heaps  were  all  girls,  and  Dickens  gave 
each  a shilling.  One  girl,  “ twenty  or  so,”  had 
been  without  food  a day  and  night.  “ Look  at 
me,”  she  said,  as  she  clutched  the  shilling,  and 
without  thanks  shuffled  off.  So  with  the  rest. 
There  was  not  a single  “thank  you.”  A crowd 
meanwhile,  only  less  poor  than  these  objects  of 
misery,  had  gathered  round  the  scene ; but 
though  they  saw  the  seven  shillings  given  away 
they  asked  for  no  relief  to  themselves,  they 
recognized  in  their  sad  wild  way  the  other  greater 
wretchedness,  and  made  room  in  silence  for 
Dickens  to  walk  on. 

Not  more  tolerant  of  die  way  in  which  laws 
meant  to  be  most  humane  are  too  often  ad- 
ministered in  England,  he  left  in  a day  or  two 
to  resume  his  Little  Dorrit  'm  Paris.  But  before 
his  life  there  is  described,  some  sketches  from 
his  holiday  trip  to  Italy  with  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins 
and  Mr.  Augustus  Egg,  and  from  his  three 
summer  visits  to  Boulogne,  claim  to  themselves 
two  intervening  chapters. 


HI. 

IN  SWITZERLAND  AND  ITALY. 

1853- 

Jk  HE  first  news  of  the  three  travellers 
was  from  Chamounix,  on  the  20th 
of  October  ; and  in  it  there  was  little 
made  of  the  fatigue,  and  much  of 
the  enjoyment,  of  their  Swiss  travel. 
Great  attention  and  cleanliness  at 
the  inns,  very  small  windows  and  very 
bleak  passages,  doors  opening  to  wintry 
blasts,  overhanging  eaves  and  external  galleries, 
plenty  of  milk,  honey,  cows,  and  goats,  much 
singing  towards  sunset  on  mountain  sides,  moun- 
tains almost  too  solemn  to  look  at — that  was  the 
picture  of  it,  with  the  country  everywhere  in  one 
of  its  finest  aspects,  as  winter  began  to  close 
in.  They  had  started  from  Geneva  the  previous 
morning  at  four,  and  in  their  day’s  travel  Dickens 
had  again  noticed  what  he  spoke  of  formerly,  the 


ill-favoured  look  of  the  people  in  the  valleys 
owing  to  their  haril  and  stern  climate.  “ All  the 
women  were  like  used-up  men,  and  all  the  men 
like  a sort  of  fagged  dogs.  But  the  good, 
genuine,  grateful  Swiss  recognition  of  the  com- 
monest kind  word — not  too  often  thrown  to 
them  by  our  countrymen — made  them  ephte 
radiant.  I walked  the  greater  part  of  the  way, 
which  was  like  going  up  the  l\Ionument.”  On 
the  day  the  letter  was  written  they  had  been  up 
to  the  Mer  de  Glace,  finding  it  not  so  beautiful 
in  colour  as  in  summer,  but  grander  in  its  deso- 
lation ; the  green  ice,  like  the  greater  part  of  the 
ascent,  being  covered  with  snow.  “ We  were 
alarmingly  near  to  a very  dismal  accident.  We 
were  a train  of  four  mules  and  two  guides,  going 
along  an  immense  height  like  a chimney-piece, 
with  sheer  precipice  below,  when  there  came 
rolling  from  above,  with  fearful  velocity,  a block 
of  stone  about  the  size  of  one  of  the  fountains 
in  Trafalgar-square,  which  Egg,  the  last  of  the 
party,  had  preceded  by  not  a yard,  when  it 
swept  over  the  ledge,  breaking  away  a tree,  and 
rolled  and  tumbled  down  into  the  valley.  It 
had  been  loosened  by  the  heavy  rains,  or  by 
some  woodcutters  afterwards  reported  to  be 
above.”  The  only  place  new  to  Dickens  was 
Berne  : “ a surprisingly  jficturesque  old  Swiss 
town,  with  a view  of  the  Alps  from  the  outside 
of  it  singularly  beautiful  in  the  morning  light.” 
Everything  else  was  familiar  to  him  : though  at 
that  winter  season,  when  the  inns  were  shutting 
up,  and  all  who  could  afford  it  were  off  to 
Geneva,  most  things  in  the  valley  struck  him 
with  a new  aspect.  Erom  such  of  his  old  friends 
as  he  found  at  Lausanne,  where  a day  or  two’s 
rest  was  taken,  he  had  the  gladdest  of  greetings  ; 
“ and  the  wonderful  manner  in  which  they  turned 
out  in  the  wettest  morning  ever  beheld  for  a 
Godspeed  down  the  Lake  was  really  (juite 
pathetic.” 

He  had  found  time  to  see  again  the  deaf, 
dumb,  and  blind  youth  at  Mr.  Haldimand’s  In- 
stitution {ante,  192)  who  had  aroused  so  deep 
an  interest  in  him  seven  years  before,  but,  in 
his  brief  present  visit,  the  old  associations  would 
not  reawaken.  “ Tremendous  efforts  were  made 
by  Hertzel  to  impress  him  with  an  iilea  of  me, 
and  the  associations  belonging  to  me;  but  it 
seemed  in  my  eyes  ejuite  a failure,  and  I mueh 
doubt  if  he  had  the  least  perception  of  his  ohl 
acquaintance.  Acconling  to  his  custom,  he  went 
on  muttering  strange  eager  sounds  like  Town 
and  Down  and  Mown,  but  nothing  more.  I L'lt 
ten  francs  to  be  s[)ent  in  cigars  for  my  old  friend. 
If  I had  taken  one  with  me,  I think  1 could, 
more  .successfully  tlian  his  master,  have  csta- 


IN  SWITZERLAND  AND  ITALY. 


291 


blished  my  identity.”  'I'hc  chiUl  similarly  afllicted, 
the  little  girl  whom  he  saw  at  the  same  old  time, 
had  been  after  some  trial  discharged  as  an  idiot. 

Before  October  closed,  the  travellers  had 
reached  Genoa,  having  been  thirty-one  consecu- 
tive hours  on  the  road  from  Milan.  They  ar- 
rived in  somewhat  damaged  condition,  and  took 
up  their  lodging  in  the  top  rooms  of  the  Croce 
di  Malta,  “ overlooking  the  port  and  sea  plea- 
santly and  airily  enough,  but  it  was  no  joke  to 
get  so  high,  and  the  apartment  is  rather  vast 
and  faded.”  The  warmth  of  personal  greeting 
that  here  awaited  Dickens  w'as  given  no  less  to 
the  friends  who  accompanied  him,  and  though 
the  reader  may  not  share  in  such  private  confi- 
dences as  would  show  the  sensation  created  by 
his  reappearance,  and  the  jovial  hours  that  were 
passed  among  old  associates,  he  will  perhaps  be 
interested  to  know  how  far  the  intervening  years 
had  changed  the  aspect  of  things  and  places 
made  pleasantly  familiar  to  us  in  his  former 
letters.  He  wrote  to  his  sister-in-law  that  the 
old  walks  were  pretty  much  the  same  as  ever, 
except  that  there  had  been  building  behind  the 
Peschiere  up  the  San  Bartolomeo  hill,  and  the 
whole  towm  towards  San  Pietro  d’Arena  had 
been  quite  changed.  The  Bisagno  looked  just 
the  same,  stony  just  then,  having  very  little  water 
in  it ; the  vicoli  were  fragrant  with  the  same  old 
flavour  of  “very  rotten  cheese  kept  in  very  hot 
blankets  ; ” and  everywhere  he  saw  the  mezzaro 
as  of  yore.  The  Jesuits’  College  in  the  Strada 
Nuova  was  become,  under  the  changed  govern- 
ment, the  Hotel  de  Ville,  and  a splendid  caffe  with 
a terrace-garden  had  arisen  between  it  and  Pala- 
viccini’s  old  palace.  “ Pal  himself  has  gone  to  the 
dogs.  Another  new  and  handsome  caffe  had  been 
built  in  the  Piazza  Carlo  Felice,  between  the  old 
one  of  the  Bei  Arti  and  the  Strada  Carlo  Felice  ; 
and  the  Teatro  Diurno  had  now  stone  galleries  and 
seats  like  an  ancient  amphitheatre.  “ The  beastly 
gate  and  guardhouse  in  the  Albaro  road  are  still 
in  their  dear  old  beastly  state ; and  the  whole 
of  that  road  is  just  as  it  was.  The  man  without 
legs  is  still  in  the  Strada  Nuova  ; but  the  beg- 
gars in  general  are  all  cleared  off,  and  our  old 
one-arm’d  Belisario  made  a sudden  evaporation 
a year  or  two  ago.  I am  going"  to  the  Peschiere 
to-day.”  To  myself  he  described  his  former 
favourite  abode  as  converted  into  a girls’  col- 
lege ; all  the  paintings  of  gods  and  goddesses 
canvassed  over,  and  the  gardens  gone  to  ruin  ; 
“ but  O ! what  a wonderful  place  ! ” He  ob- 
served an  extraordinary  increase  everywhere  else, 
since  he  was  last  in  the  splendid  city,  of  “ life, 
growth,  and  enterprise;”  and  he  declared  his  first 
conviction  to  be  confirmed  that  for  picturesque 


beauty  and  character  there  was  nothing  in  Italy, 
Venice  excepted,  “near  brilliant  old  Genoa.” 

The  voyage  thence  to  Naples,  written  from 
the  latter  place,  is  too  capital  a description  to 
be  lost.  The  steamer  in  which  they  embarked 
was  “ the  new  express  English  ship,”  but  they 
found  her  to  be  already  more  than  full  of  pas- 
sengers from  Marseilles  (among  them  an  old 
friend.  Sir  Emerson  Tennent,  with  his  family), 
and  everything  in  confusion.  There  were  no 
places  at  the  captain’s  table,  dinner  had  to  be 
taken  on  deck,  no  berth  or  sleeping  accommo- 
dation was  available,  and  heavy  first-class  fares 
had  to  be  paid.  Thus  they  made  their  way  to- 
Leghorn,  where  worse  awaited  them.  The  au- 
thorities proved  to  be  not  favourable  to  the 
“ crack  ” English-officered  vessel  (she  had  just 
been  started  for  the  India  mail)  ; and  her  papers 
not  being  examined  in  time,  it  was  too  late  to 
steam  away  again  that  day,  and  she  had  to  lie 
all  night  long  off  the  lighthouse.  “ The  scene 
on  board  beggars  description.  Ladies  on  the 
tables ; gentlemen  under  the  tables ; bedroom 
appliances  not  usually  beheld  in  public  airing 
themselves  in  positions  where  soup-tureens  had 
been  lately  developing  themselves ; and  ladies 
and  gentlemen  lying  indiscriminately  on  the 
open  deck,  arranged  like  spoons  on  a sideboard. 

No  mattresses,  no  blankets,  nothing.  Towards 
midnight  attempts  were  made,  by  means  of 
awning  and  flags,  to  make  this  latter  scene  re- 
motely approach  an  Australian  encampment ; 
and  we  three  (Collins,  Egg,  and  self)  lay  together 
on  the  bare  planks  covered  with  our  coats.  We 
were  all  gradually  dozing  off,  when  a perfectly 
tropical  rain  fell,  and  in  a moment  drowned  the 
whole  ship.  The  rest  of  the  night  we  passed 
upon  the  stairs,  with  an  immense  jumble  of  men 
and  women.  When  anybody  came  up  for  any 
purpose  we  all  fell  down,  and  when  anybody 
came  down  we  all  fell  up  again.  Still,  the  good- 
humour  in  the  English  part  of  the  passengers 
W’as  quite  extraordinary.  . . . There  were  excel- 
lent officers  aboard,  and,  in  the  morning,  the 
first  mate  lent  me  his  cabin  to  wash  in — which 
I afterwards  lent  to  Egg  and  Collins.  Then  we, 
the  Emerson  Tennents,  the  captain,  the  doctor, 
and  the  second  officer,  w'ent  off  on  a jaunt 
together  to  Pisa,  as  the  ship  was  to  lie  all  day 
at  Leghorn.  The  captain  was  a capital  fellow’, 
but  I led  him,  facetiously,  such  a life  the  whole 
day,  that  I got  most  things'  altered  at  night. 
Emerson  Tennent’s  son,  with  the  greatest  ami- 
ability, insisted  on  turning  out  of  his  state-room 
for  me,  and  I got  a good  bed  there.  The  store- 
room down  by  the  hold  was  opened  for  Collins 
and  Egg ; and  they  slept  w'ith  the  moist  sugar,  j 


292 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  HICKENS. 


the  cheese  in  cut,  the  spices,  the  cruets,  the 
apples  and  pears,  in  a perfect  chandler’s  shop — 
in  company  wit«h  what  a friend  of  ours  would 
call  a hold  gent,  who  had  been  so  horribly  wet 
through  overnight  that  his  condition  frightened 
the  authorities ; a cat ; and  the  steward,  who 
dozed  in  an  arm-chair,  and  all-night-long  fell 
head  foremost,  once  every  five  minutes,  on  Egg, 
who  slept  on  the  counter  or  dresser.  Last  night, 
I had  the  steward’s  own  cabin,  opening  on  deck, 
all  to  myself.  It  had  been  previously  occupied 
by  some  desolate  lady  who  went  ashore  at  Civita 
Vecchia.  There  was  little  or  no  sea,  thank 
Heaven,  all  the  trip ; but  the  rain  was  heavier 
than  any  I have  ever  seen,  and  the  lightning 
very  constant  and  vivid.  We  were,  with  the 
crew — some  200  people — provided  with  boats, 
at  the  utmost  stretch,  for  one  hundred  perhaps. 
I could  not  help  thinking  what  would  happen  if 
we  met  with  any  accident : the  crew  being  chiefly 
Maltese,  and  evidently  fellows  who  would  cut  off 
alone  in  the  largest  boat,  on  the  least  alarm  ; the 
speed  very  high  ; and  the  running,  thro’  all  the 
narrow  rocky  channels.  Thank  God,  however, 
here  we  are.” 

A whimsical  postscript  closed  the  amusing 
narrative.  “ We  towed  from  Civita  Vecchia,  the 
entire  Greek  navy,  I believe  ; consisting  of  a 
little  brig  of  war  with  no  guns,  fitted  as  a steamer, 
but  disabled  by  having  burnt  the  bottoms  of  her 
boilers  out,  in  her  first  run.  She  was  just  big 
enough  to  carry  the  captain  and  a crew  of  six  or 
so  : but  the  captain  was  so  covered  with  buttons 
and  gold  that  there  never  could  have  been  room 
for  him  on  board  to  put  those  valuables  away, 
if  he  hadn’t  worn  them — which  he  consequently 
did,  all  night.  Whenever  anything  was  wanted 
to  be  done,  as  slackening  the  tow-rope  or  any- 
thing of  that  sort,  our  officers  roared  at  this 
miserable  potentate,  in  violent  English,  through 
a speaking  trumpet ; of  which  he  couldn’t  have 
understood  a word  in  the  most  favourable  cir- 
cumstances. So  he  did  all  the  wrong  things 
first,  and  the  right  thing  always  last.  The 
absence  of  any  knowledge  of  anything  but  Eng- 
lish on  the  part  of  the  officers  and  stewards  was 
most  ridiculous.  I met  an  Italian  gentleman 
on  the  cabin  steps  yesterday  morning,  vainly 
endeavouring  to  explain  that  he  wanted  a cup 
of  tea  for  his  sick  wife.  And  when  we  were 
coming  out  of  the  harbour  at  Genoa,  and  it  was 
necessary  to  order  away  that  boat  of  music  you 
remember,  the  chief  officer  (called  ‘ aft  ’ for  the 
purpose,  as  ‘ knowing  something  of  Italian  ’)  de- 
livered himself  in  this  explicit  and  clear  Italian 
to  the  principal  performer — ‘ Now  Signora,  if 
you  don’t  sheer  off  you’ll  be  run  down,  so  you 


had  better  trice  up  that  guitar  of  yours  and  put 
about.’  ” 

At  Naples  some  days  were  passed  very  merrily; 
going  up  Vesuvius  and  into  the  buried  cities, 
with  Layard  who  had  joined  them,  and  with  the 
Tennents.  Here  a small  adventure  befell 
Dickens  specially,  in  itself  extremely  unim- 
portant, but  told  by  him  with  delightful  humour 
in  a letter  to  his  sister-in-law.  The  old  idle 
Frenchman,  to  whom  all  things  are  possible, 
with  his  snuff-box  and  dusty  umbrella  and  all 
the  delicate  and  kindly  observation,  would  have 
enchanted  Leigh  Hunt,  and  made  his  way  to 
the  heart  of  Charles  Lamb.  After  mentioning 
Mr.  Lowther,  then  English  charge  d’affaires  in 
Naples,  as  a very  agreeable  fellow  who  had  been 
at  the  Rockingham  play,  he  alludes  to  a meeting 
at  his  house.  “We  had  an  exceedingly  pleasant 
dinner  of  eight,  preparatory  to  which  I was  near 
having  the  ridiculous  adventure  of  not  being  able 
to  find  the  house  and  coming  back  dinneiless. 
I went  in  an  open  carriage  from  the  hotel  in  all 
state,  and  the  coachman  to  my  surprise  pulled 
up  at  the  end  of  the  Chiaja.  ‘ Behold  the 
house,’  says  he,  ‘ of  II  Signor  Larthoor  ! ’ — at  the 
same  time  pointing  with  his  whip  into  the 
seventh  heaven  where  the  early  stars  were  shin- 
ing. ‘ But  the  Signor  Larthorr,’  says  I,  ‘ lives  at 
Pausilippo.’  ‘ It  is  true,’  says  the  coachman 
(still  pointing  to  the  evening  star),  ‘ but  he  lives 
high  up  the  Salita  Sant’  Antonio  where  no  car- 
riage ever  yet  ascended,  and  that  is  the  house  ’ 
(evening  star  as  aforesaid),  ‘ and  one  must  go  on 
foot.  Behold  the  Salita  Sant’  Antonio  ! ’ I went 
up  it,  a mile  and  a half  I should  think.  I got 
into  the  strangest  places  among  the  wildest 
Neapolitans  kitchens,  washing-places,  archways, 
stables,  vineyards ; was  baited  by  dogs,  and  an- 
swered, in  profoundly  unintelligible  language, 
from  behind  lonely  locked  doors,  in  cracked 
female  voices,  quaking  with  fear;  but  could  hear 
of  no  such  Englishman,  nor  any  Englishman. 
Bye  and  bye,  I came  upon  a polenta-shop  in  the 
clouds,  where  an  old  Frenchman  with  an  um- 
brella like  a faded  tropical  leaf  (it  had  not  rained 
in  Naples  for  six  weeks)  was  staring  at  nothing 
at  all,  with  a snuff-box  in  his  hand.  To  him  1 
appealed,  concerning  the  Signor  Larthoor.  ‘ Sir,’ 
said  he,  with  the  sweetest  politeness,  ‘ can  you 
speak  French  ? ’ ‘ Sir,’  said  I,  ‘ a little.’  ‘ Sir,’ 

saiil  he,  ‘ I presume  the  Signor  Loothere  ’ — you 
will  observe  that  he  changed  the  name  according 
to  the  custom  of  his  country — ‘ is  an  English- 
man ? ’ I admitted  that  he  was  the  victim  of 
circumstances  and  had  that  misfortune.  ‘ Sir,’ 
said  he,  ‘ one  word  more.  Has  he  a servant 
with  a wooden  leg  ? ’ ‘ Great  heaven,  sir,’  said 


IN  SWITZERLAND  AND  ITALY. 


I,  ‘ how  do  I know  ? I should  think  not,  but 
it  is  possible.’  ‘ It  is  always,’  said  the  French- 
man, ‘ possible.  Almost  all  the  things  of  the 
world  are  always  possible.’  ‘ Sir,’  said  I, — you 
may  imagine  my  condition  and  dismal  sense  of 
my  own  absurdity  by  this  time — ‘ that  is  true.’ 


293 


He  then  took  an  immense  pinch  of  snuff,  wiped 
the  dust  off  his  umbrella,  led  me  to  an  arch  com- 
manding a wonderful  view  of  the  Bay  of  Naples, 
and  pointed  deep  into  the  earth  from  which  I 
had  mounted.  ‘ Below  there,  near  the  lamp, 
one  finds  an  Englishman  with  a servant  with  a 


“BYE  AND  BYE,  I CAME  UPON  A POLENTA-SHOP  IN  THE  CLOUDS,  WHERE  AN  OLD  FRENCHMAN  WI.TH  AN 
UMBRELLA  LIKE  A FADED  TROPICAL  LEAF  (iT  HAD  NOT  RAINED  IN  NAPLES  FOR  SIX  WEEKS)  WAS 
STARING  AT  NOTHING  AT  ALL,  WITH  A SNUFF-BOX  IN  HIS  HAND.” 


wooden  leg.  It  is  always  possible  that  he  is  the 
Signor  Loothere.’  I had  been  asked  at  six 
o’clock,  and  it  was  now  getting  on  for  seven.  I 
went  back  in  a state  of  perspiration  and  misery 
not  to  be  described,  and  without  the  faintest 
Ltff.  OF  Charles  Dickens^  20. 


hope  of  finding  the  spot.  But  as  I was  going 
farther  down  to  the  lamp,  I saw  the  strangest 
staircase  up  a dark  corner,  with  a man  in  a white 
waistcoat  (evidently  hired)  standing  at  the  bot- 
tom of  it  fuming.  I dashed  in  at  a venture, 
428 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


294 


found  it  was  the  house,  made  the  most  of  the 
whole  story,  and  achieved  much  popularity. 
The  best  of  it  was  that  as  nobody  ever  did  find 
the  place,  Lowther  had  put  a servant  at  the 
bottom  of  the  Salita  to  wait  ‘ for  an  English 
I gentleman but  the  servant  (as  he  presently 
pleaded),  deceived  by  the  moustache,  had  al- 
lowed the  English  gentleman  to  pass  unchal- 
lenged.” 

From  Naples  they  went  to  Rome,  where  they 
found  Lockhart,  “ fearfully  weak  and  broken, 
yet  hopeful  of  himself  too  ” (he  died  the  follow- 
ing year) ; smoked  and  drank  punch  with  David 
Roberts,  then  painting  every  day  with  Louis 
Haghe  in  St.  Peter’s ; and  took  the  old  walks. 
The  Coliseum,  Appian  Way,  and  Streets  of 
Tombs,  seemed  desolate  and  grand  as  ever ; 
but  generally,  Dickens  adds,  “ I discovered  the 
Roman  antiquities  to  be  smaller  than  my  ima- 
gination in  nine  years  had  made  them.  The 
Electric  Telegraph  now  goes  like  a sunbeam 
through  the  cruel  old  heart  of  the  Coliseum — a 
suggestive  thing  to  think  about,  I fancied.  The 
Pantheon  I thought  even  nobler  than  of  yore.” 
The  amusements  were  of  course  an  attraction ; 
and  nothing  at  the  Opera  amused  the  party  of 
three  English  more,  than  another  party  of  four 
Americans  who  sat  behind  them  in  the  pit. 
“All  the  seats  are  numbered  arm-chairs,  and 
you  buy  your  number  at  the  pay-place,  and  go 
to  it  with  the  easiest  direction  on  the  ticket 
itself.  We  were  early,  and  the  four  places  of 
the  Americans  were  on  the  next  row  behind  us 
— all  together.  After  looking  about  them  for 
some  time,  and  seeing  the  greater  part  of  the 
seats  empty  (because  the  audience  generally 
wait  in  a caffh  which  is  part  of  the  theatre),  one 
of  them  said,  ‘ Waal  I dunno — I expect  we  aint 
no  call  to  set  so  nigh  to  one  another  neither— 
will  you  scatter  Kernel,  will  you  scatter  sir?’ 
— Upon  this  the  Kernel  ‘ scattered  ’ some  twenty 
benches  off;  and  they  distributed  themselves 
(for  no  earthly  reason  apparently  but  to  get  rid 
of  one  another)  all  over  the  pit.  As  soon  as 
the  overture  began,  in  came  the  audience  in  a 
mass.  Then  the  people  who  had  got  the  num- 
bers into  which  they  had  ‘ scattered,’  had  to  get 
them  out ; and  as  they  understood  nothing  that 
was  said  to  them,  and  could  make  no  reply  but 
‘ A-mericani,’  you  may  imagine  the  number  of 
cocked  hats  it  took  to  dislodge  them.  At  last 
they  were  all  got  back  into  their  riglit  places, 
except  one.  About  an  hour  afterwards  when 
Moses  {^Moscs  in  Egypt  was  the  opera)  was  in- 
voking the  darkness,  and  there  was  a dead 
silence  all  over  the  house,  unwonted  sounds  of 
disturbance  broke  out  from  a distant  corner  of 


the  pit,  and  here  and  there  a beard  got  up  tO’ 
look.  ‘ What  is  it  neow,  sir  ? ’ said  one  of  the 
Americans  to  another ; ‘ some  person  seems  to 
be  getting  along,  again  streeem.’  ‘ Waal  sir’  he 
replied  ‘ I dunno.  But  I xpect  ’tis  the  Kernel 
sir,  a holdin  on.’  So  it  was.  The  Kernel  was 
ignominiously  escorted  back  to  his  right  place, 
not  in  the  least  disconcerted,  and  in  perfectly 
( good  spirits  and  temper.”  The  opera  was  ex- 
cellently done,  and  the  price  of  the  stalls  one 
and  threepence  English.  At  Milan,  on  the 
other  hand,  the  Scala  was  fallen  from  its  old 
estate,  dirty,  gloomy,  dull,  and  the  performance 
execrable. 

Another  theatre  of  the  smallest  pretension 
Dickens  sought  out  with  avidity  in  Rome,  and 
eagerly  enjoyed.  He  had  heard  it  said  in  his 
old  time  in  Genoa  that  the  finest  Marionetti 
were  here;  and  now,  after  great  difficulty,  he 
discovered  the  company  in  a sort  of  stable 
attached  to  a decayed  palace.  “ It  was  a wet 
night,  and  there  was  no  audience  but  a party  of 
French  officers  and  ourselves.  We  all  sat  toge- 
ther. I never  saw  anything  more  amazing  than 
the  performance — altogether  only  an  hour  long, 
but  managed  by  as  many  as  ten  people,  for  we 
saw  them  all  go  behind,  at  the  ringing  of  a bell. 
The  saving  of  a young  lady  by  a good  fairy  from 
the  machinations  of  an  enchanter,  coupled  with 
the  comic  business  of  her  servant  Pulcinella  (the 
Roman  Punch)  formed  the  plot  of  the  first  piece. 
A scolding  old  peasant  woman,  who  always 
leaned  forward  to  scold  and  put  her  hands  in 
the  pockets  of  her  apron,  was  incredibly  natural. 
Pulcinella,  so  airy,  so  merry,  so  life-like,  so 
graceful,  he  was  irresistible.  To  see  him  carry- 
ing an  umbrella  over  his  mistress’s  head  in  a 
storm,  talking  to  a prodigious  giant  whom  he 
met  in  the  forest,  and  going  to  bed  with  a pony, 
were  things  never  to  be  forgotten.  And  so 
delicate  are  the  hands  of  the  people  who  move 
them,  that  every  puppet  was  an  Italian,  and  did 
exactly  what  an  Italian  does.  If  he  pointed  at 
any  object,  if  he  saluted  anybody,  if  he  laughed, 
if  he  cried,  he  did  it  as  never  Englishman  did  it 
since  Britain  first  at  Heaven’s  command  arose — 
arose — arose,  &c.  There  was  a ballet  after- 
wards, on  the  same  scale,  and  we  came  away 
really  quite  enchanted  with  the  delicate  drollery 
of  the  thing.  French  officers  more  than  ditto.” 

Of  the  great  enemy  to  the  health  of  the  now 
capital  of  the  kingdom  of  Italy,  Dickens  re- 
marked in  the  same  letter.  “ I have  been  led 
into  some  curious  speculations  by  tlic  existence 
and  progress  of  the  Malaria  about  Rome.  Isn’t 
it  very  extraordinary  to  think  of  its  encroaching 
and  encroaching  on  the  Eternal  City  as  if  it 


IN  SWITZERLAND  AND  ITALY. 


were  commissioned  to  swallow  it  up?  This 
year  it  has  been  extremely  bad,  and  has  long 
outstayed  its  usual  time.  Rome  has  been  very 
unhealthy,  and  is  not  free  now.  Few  people 
care  to  be  out  at  the  bad  times  of  sunset  and 
sunrise,  and  the  streets  are  like  a desert  at 
night.  There  is  a church,  a very  little  way  out- 
side the  walls,  destroyed  by  fire  some  i6  or  i8 
years  ago,  and  now  restored  and  re-created  at 
an  enormous  expense.  It  stands  in  a wilder- 
ness. For  any  human  creature  who  goes  near 
it,  or  can  sleep  near  it,  after  nightfall,  it  might 
as  well  be  at  the  bottom  of  the  uppermost  cata- 
ract of  the  Nile.  Along  the  whole  extent  of  the 
Pontine  Marshes  (which  we  came  across  the 
other  day),  no  creature  in  Adam’s  likeness  lives, 
except  the  sallow  people  at  the  lonely  posting- 
stations.  I walk  out  from  the  Coliseum  through 
the  Street  of  Tombs  to  the  ruins  of  the  old 
Appian  Way — pass  no  human  being,  and  see 
no  human  habitation  but  ruined  houses  from 
which  the  people  have  fled,  and  where  it  is 
death  to  sleep ; these  houses  being  three  miles 
outside  a gate  of  Rome  at  its  farthest  extent. 
Leaving  Rome  by  the  opposite  side,  we  travel 
for  many  many  hours  over  the  dreary  Campagna, 
shunned  and  avoided  by  all  but  the  wretched 
shepherds.  Thirteen  hours’  good  posting  brings 
us  to  Bolsena  (I  slept  there  once  before),  on 
the  margin  of  a stagnant  lake  whence  the  work- 
people fly  as  the  sun  goes  down — where  it  is  a 
risk  to  go ; where  from  a distance  we  saw  a mist 
hang  on  the  place  ; where,  in  the  inconceivably 
wretched  inn,  no  window  can  be  opened ; where 
our  dinner  was  a pale  ghost  of  a fish  with  an 
oily  omelette,  and  we  slept  in  great  mouldering 
rooms  tainted  with  ruined  arches  and  heaps  of 
dung — and  coming  from  which  we  saw  no  colour 
in  the  cheek  of  man,  woman,  or  child  for  another 
twenty  miles.  Imagine  this  phantom  knocking 
at  the  gates  of  Rome ; passing  them ; creeping 
along  the  streets ; haunting  the  aisles  and 
pillars  of  the  churches  ; year  by  year  more 
encroaching,  and  more  impossible  of  avoid- 
ance.” 

From  Rome  they  posted  to  Florence,  reach- 
ing it  in  three  days  and  a half,  on  the  morning 
of  the  2oth  of  November;  having  then  been 
out  six  weeks,  with  only  three  days’  rain ; and 
in  another  week  they  were  at  Venice.  “ The 
fine  weather  has  accompanied  us  here,”  Dickens 
wrote  on  the  28th  of  November,  “the  place  of 
all  others  where  it  is  necessary,  and  the  city  has 
been  a blaze  of  sunlight  and  blue  sky  (with  an 
extremely  clear  cold  air)  ever  since  we  have 
been  in  it.  If  you  could  see  it  at  this  moment 
you  would  never  forget  it.  We  live  in  the  same 


295 


house  that  I lived  in  nine  years  ago,  and  have 
the  same  sitting-room — close  to  the  Bridge  of 
Sighs  and  the  Palace  of  the  Doges.  The  room 
is  at  the  corner  of  the  house,  and  there  is  a 
narrow  street  of  water  running  round  the  side  : 
so  that  we  have  the  Grand  Canal  before  the 
two  front  windows,  and  this  wild  little  street  at 
the  corner  window : into  which,  too,  our  three 
bedrooms  look.  We  established  a gondola  as 
soon  as  we  arrived,  and  we  slide  out  of  the  hall 
on  to  the  water  twenty  times  a day.  The  gon- 
doliers have  queer  old  customs  that  belong  to 
their  class,  and  some  are  sufficiently  disconcert- 
ing  It  is  a point  of  honour  with  them, 

while  they  are  engaged,  to  be  always  at  your 
disposal.  Hence  it  is  no  use  telling  them  they 
may  go  home  for  an  hour  or  two — for  they 
won’t  go.  They  roll  themselves  in  shaggy 
capuccins,  great  coats  with  hoods,  and  lie  down 
on  the  stone  or  marble  pavement  until  they  are 
wanted  again.  So  that  when  I come  in  or  go 
out,  on  foot — which  can  be  done  from  this 
house  for  some  miles,  over  little  bridges  and  by 
narrow  ways — I usually  walk  over  the  principal 
of  my  vassals,  whose  custom  it  is  to  snore  im- 
mediately across  the  doorway.  Conceive  the 
oddity  of  the  most  familiar  things  in  this  place, 
from  one  instance  ; Last  night  we  go  down- 
stairs at  half-past  eight,  step  into  the  gondola, 
slide  away  on  the  black  water,  ripple  and  plash 
swiftly’along  for  a mile  or  two,  land  at  a broad 
flight  of  steps,  and  instantly  walk  into  the  most 
brilliant  and  beautiful  theatre  conceivable — all 
silver  and  blue,  and  precious  little  fringes  made 
of  glittering  prisms  of  glass.  There  we  sit  until 
half-past  eleven,  come  out  again  (gondolier 
asleep  outside  the  box-door),  and  in  a moment 
are  on  the  black  silent  water,  floating  away  as  if 
there  were  no  dry  building  in  the  world.  It 
stops,  and  in  a moment  we  are  out  again,  upon 
the  broad  solid  Piazza  of  St.  Mark,  brilliantly 
lighted  with  gas,  very  like  the  Palais  Royal  at 
Paris,  only  far  more  handsome,  and  shining 
with  no  end  of  caffes.  The  two  old  pillars  and 
the  enormous  bell-tower  are  as  gruff  and  solid 
against  the  exquisite  starlight  as  if  they  were  a 
thousand  miles  from  the  sea  or  any  undermining 
water;  and  the  front  of  the  cathedral,  overlaid 
with  golden  mosaics  and  beautiful  colours,  is 
like  a thousand  rainbows  even  in  the  night.” 

His  formerly  expressed  notions  as  to  art  and 
pictures  in  Italy  received  confirmation  at  this 
visit.  “ I am  more  than  ever  confirmed  in  my 
conviction  that  one  of  the  great  uses  of  travelling 
is  to  encourage  a man  to  think  for  himself,  to  be 
bold  enough  always  to  declare  without  offence 
that  he  does  think  for  himself,  and  to  overcome 


296 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICIvENS. 


the  villainous  meanness  of  professing  what  other 
people  have  professed  when  he  knows  (if  he  has 
capacity  to  originate  an  opinion)  that  his  profes- 
sion is  untrue.  The  intolerable  nonsense  against 
which  genteel  taste  and  subserviency  are  afraid 
to  rise,  in  connection  with  art,  is  astounding. 
Egg’s  honest  amazement  and  consternation  when 
he  saw  some  of  the  most  trumpeted  things  was 
what  the  Americans  call  a ‘ caution.’  In  the 
very  same  hour  and  minute  there  were  scores  of 
people  falling  into  conventional  raptures  with 
that  very  poor  Apollo,  and  passing  over  the 
most  beautiful  little' figures  and  heads  in  the 
whole  Vatican  because  they  were  not  expressly 
set  up  to  be  worshipped.  So  in  this  place. 
There  are  pictures  by  Tintoretto  in  Venice  more 
delightful  and  masterly  than  it  is  possible  suffi- 
ciently to  express.  His  Assembly  of  the  Blest 
I do  believe  to  be,  take  it  all  in  all,  the  most 
wonderful  and  charming  picture  ever  painted. 
Your  guide-book  writer,  representing  the  general 
swarming  of  humbugs,  rather  patronizes  Tin- 
toretto as  a man  of  some  sort  of  merit ; and 
(bound  to  follow  Eustace,  Forsyth,  and  all  the 
rest  of  them)  directs  you,  on  pain  of  being  broke 
for  want  of  gentility  in  appreciation,  to  go  into 
ecstacies  with  things  that  have  neither  imagi- 
nation, nature,  proportion,  possibility,  nor  any- 
thing else  in  them.  You  immediately  obey,  and 
tell  your  son  to  obey.  He  tells  his  son,  and  he 
tells  his,  and  so  the  world  gets  at  three-fourths 
of  its  frauds  and  miseries.” 

The  last  place  visited  was  Turin,  where  the 
travellers  arrived  on  the  5th  of  December,  find- 
ing it,  with  a brightly  shining  sun,  intensely  cold 
and  freezing  hard.  “ There  are  double  win- 
dows to  all  the  rooms,  but  the  Alpine  air  comes 
down  and  numbs  my  feet  as  I write  (in  a cap 
and  shawl)  within  six  feet  of  the  fire.”  There 
was  yet  something  better  than  this  to  report  of 
that  bracing  Alpine  air.  To  Dickens’s  remarks 
on  the  Sardinian  race,  and  to  what  he  says  of 
the  exile  of  the  noblest  Italians,  the  momentous 
events  of  the  few  following  years  gave  striking 
comment ; nor  could  better  proof  be  afforded  of 
the  judgment  he  brought  to  the  observation  of 
what  passed  before  him.  The  letter  had  in 
all  respects  much  interest  and  attractiveness. 
“ This  is  a remarkably  agreeable  place.  A beauti- 
ful town,  prosperous,  thriving,  growing  prodi- 
giously, as  Genoa  is  ; crowded  with  busy  inha- 
bitants ; full  of  noble  streets  and  scjuares.  The 
Alps,  now  covered  deep  with  snow,  are  close 
upon  it,  and  here  and  there  seem  almost  ready 
to  tumble  into  the  houses.  The  contrast  this 
part  of  Italy  presents  to  the  rest,  is  amazing. 
Beautifully  made  railroads,  admirably  managed  ; 


cheerful,  active  people ; spirit,  energy,  life,  pro- 
gress. In  Milan,  in  every  street,  the  noble  palace 
of  some  exile  is  a barrack,  and  dirty  soldiers  are 
lolling  out  of  the  magnificent  windows — it  seems 
as  if  the  whole  place  were  being  gradually  ab- 
sorbed into  soldiers.  In  Naples,  something  like  a 
hundred  thousand  troops.  ‘ I knew,’  I said  to  a 
certain  Neapolitan  Marchese  there  whom  I had 
known  before,  and  who  came  to  see  me  the  night 
after  I arrived,  ‘ I knew  a very  remarkable  gentle- 
man when  I was  last  here ; who  had  never  been 
out  of  his  own  country,  but  was  perfectly  ac- 
quainted with  English  literature,  and  had  taught 
himself  to  speak  English  in  that  wonderful  man- 
ner that  no  one  could  have  known  him  for  a 
foreigner  j I am  very  anxious  to  see  him  again, 
but  I forget  his  name.’— He  named  him,  and  his 
face  fell  directly.  ‘ Dead  ?’  said  I. — ‘ In  exile.’ 
— ‘ O dear  me  !’  said  I,  ‘ I had  looked  forward 
to  seeing  him  again,  more  than  any  one  I was 
acquainted  with  in  the  country  !’ — ‘ '\Vhat  would 
you  have?’  says  the  Marchese  in  a low  voice. 

‘ He  was  a remarkable  man — full  of  knowledge, 
full  of  spirit,  full  of  generosity.  Where  should 
he  be  but  in  exile  ! Where  could  he  be  ! ’ We 
said  not  another  word  about  it,  but  I shall 
always  remember  the  short  dialogue.” 

On  the  other  hand  there  were  incidents  of  the 
Austrian  occupation  as  to  which  Dickens  thought 
the  ordinary  style  of  comment  unfair;  and  his 
closing  remark  on  their  police  is  well  worth  pre- 
serving. “ I am  strongly  inclined  to  think  that 
our  countrymen  are  to  blame  in  the  matter  of 
the  Austrian  vexations  to  travellers  that  have 
been  complained  of.  Their  manner  is  so  very 
bad,  they  are  so  extraordinarily  suspicious,  so 
determined  to  be  done  by  everybody,  and  give 
so  much  offence.  Now,  the  Austrian  police  are 
very  strict,  but  they  really  know  how  to  do 
business,  and  they  do  it.  And  if  you  treat  them 
like  gentlemen,  they  will  always  respond.  When 
we  first  crossed  the  Austrian  frontier,  and  were 
ushered  into  the  police  office,  I took  off  my  hat. 
The  officer  immediately  took  off  his,  and  was  as 
polite — still  doing  his  duty,  without  any  compro- 
mise— as  it  was  possible  to  be.  When  we  came 
to  Venice,  the  arrangements  were  very  strict,  but 
were  so  business-like  that  the  smallest  possible 
amount  of  inconvenience  consistent  with  strict- 
ness ensued.  Here  is  the  scene.  A soldier  has 
come  into  the  railway  carriage  (a  saloon  on  tlie 
American  plan)  some  miles  off,  has  touched  his 
hat,  ami  asked  for  my  passport.  1 have  given  it. 
Soldier  lias  touched  his  hat  again,  and  retired  as 
from  the  presence  of  a superior  officer.  Alighted 
from  carriage,  we  pass  into  a }ilace  like  a liank- 
ing-house,  lighted  up  with  gas.  Nobody  bullies 


THREE  SUMMERS  AT  BOULOGNE. 


us  or  drives  us  tliere,  but  we  must  go,  because 
the  road  ends  there.  Several  soldierly  clerks. 
One  very  sharp  chief.  My  passport  is  brought 
out  of  an  inner  room,  certified  to  be  en  rbgle. 
Very  sharp  chief  takes  it,  looks  at  it  (it  is  rather 
longer,  now,  than  Hamlet),  calls  out — ‘ Signor 
Carlo  Dickens!’  ‘Here  I am  sir.’  ‘Do  you 
intend  remaining  long  in  Venice  sir?’  ‘Pro- 
bably four  days  sir  1 ’ ‘ Italian  is  known  to  you 

sir.  You  have  been  in  Venice  before?’  ‘ Once 
before  sir.’  ‘ Perhaps  you  remained  longer  then 
sir?’  ‘ No  indeed;  I merely  came  to  see,  and 
went  as  I came.’  ‘ Truly  sir  ? Do  I infer  that 
you  are  going  by  Trieste  ?’  ‘ No.  I am  going 

to  Parma,  and  Turin,  and  by  Paris  home.’  ‘A 
cold  journey  sir,  I hope  it  may  be  a pleasant 
one.’  ‘ Thank  you.’ — He  gives  me  one  very  sharp 
look  all  over,  and  wishes  me  a very  happy  night. 
I wish  him  a very  happy  night  and  it’s  done. 
The  thing  being  done  at  all,  could  not  be  better 
done,  or  more  politely — though  I dare  say  if  I 
had  been  sucking  a gentish  cane  all  the  time,  or 
talking  in  English  to  my  compatriots,  it  might 
not  unnaturally  have  been  different.  At  Turin 
and  at  Genoa  there  are  no  such  stoppages  at  all ; 
but  in  any  other  part  of  Italy,  give  me  an  Aus- 
trian in  preference  to  a native  functionary.  At 
Naples  it  is  done  in  a beggarly,  shambling,  bun- 
gling, tardy,  vulgar  way ; but  I am  strengthened 
in  my  old  impression  that  Naples  is  one  of  the 
most  odious  places  on  the  face  of  the  earth.  The 
general  degradation  oppresses  me  like  foul  air.” 


IV. 


THREE  SUMMERS  AT  BOULOGNE. 

1853.  1854,  AND  1856. 

ICKENS  was  in  Boulogne,  in  1853, 
from  the  middle  of  June  to  the  end 
fW  September,  and  for  the  next 
three  months,  as  we  have  seen,  was 
in  Switzerland  and  Italy.  In  the 
following  year  he  went  again  to  Boulogne 
in  June,  and  stayed,  after  finishing  Hard 
Times,  until  far  into  October.  In  Febru- 
ary of  1855  he  was  fora  fortnight  in  Paris  with 
Mr.  Wilkie  Collins  ; not  taking  up  his  more  pro- 
longed residence  there  until  the  winter.  From 
November  1855  to  the  end  of  April  1856  he 
made  the  French  capital  his  home,  working  at 
Little  Dorrit  during  all  those  months.  Then, 
after  a month’s  interval  in  Dover  and  London, 
he  took  up  his  third  summer  residence  in  Bou- 
logne, whither  his  younger  .children  had  gone 


direct  from  Paris ; and  stayed  until  September, 
finishing  Little  Dorrit  in  London  in  the  spring 
of  1857. 

Of  the  first  of  these  visits,  a few  lively  notes 
of  humour  and  character  out  of  his  letters  will 
tell  the  story  sufficiently.  The  second  and  third 
had  points  of  more  attractiveness.  Those  were 
the  years  of  the  French-English  alliance,  of  the 
great  exposition  of  English  paintings,  of  the 
return  of  the  troops  from  the  Crimea,  and  of  the 
visit  of  the  Prince  Consort  to  the  Emperor;  such 
interest  as  Dickens  took  in  these  several  matters 
appearing  in  his  letters  with  the  usual  vividness, 
and  the  story  of  his  continental  life  coming  out 
with  amusing  distinctness  in  the  successive  pic- 
tures they  paint  with  so  much  warmth  and 
colour.  Another  chapter  will  be  given  to  Paris. 
This  deals  only  with  Boulogne. 

For  his  first  summer  residence,  in  June  1853, 
he  had  taken  a house  on  the  high  ground  near  the 
Calais  road ; an  odd  French  place  with  the 
strangest  little  rooms  and  halls,  but  standing  in 
the  midst  of  a large  garden,  with  wood  and 
waterfall,  a conservatory  opening  on  a great  bank 
of  roses,  and  paths  and  gates  on  one  side  to  the 
ramparts,  on  the  other  to  the  sea.  Above  all 
there  was  a capital  proprietor  and  landlord,  by 
whom  the  cost  of  keeping  up  gardens  and  wood 
(which  he  called  a forest)  was  defrayed,  while  he 
gave  his  tenant  the  whole  range  of  both  and  all 
the  flowers  for  nothing,  sold  him  the  garden 
produce  as  it  was  wanted,  and  kept  a cow  on 
the  estate  to  supply  the  family  milk.  “ If  this 
were  but  300  miles  farther  off,”  wrote  Dickens, 

“ how  the  English  would  rave  about  it ! I do 
assure  you  that  there  are  picturesque  people, 
and  town,  and  country,  about  this  place,  that 
quite  fill  up  the  eye  and  fancy.  As  to  the  fish- 
ing people  (whose  dress  can  have  changed  neither 
in  colour  nor  in  form  for  many  many  years), 
and  their  quarter  of  the  town  cobweb-hung  with 
great  brown  nets  across  the  narrow  up-hill  streets, 
they  are  as  good  as  Naples,  every  bit.”  His 
description  both  of  house  and  landlord,  of  which 
I tested  the  exactness  when  I visited  him,  was 
in  the  old  pleasant  vein ; requiring  no  connec- 
tion with  himself  to  give  it  interest,  but,  by  the 
charm  and  ease  with  which  everything  picturesque 
or  characteristic  was  disclosed,  placed  in  the 
domain  of  art. 

“ O the  rain  here  yesterday  ! ” (26th  of  June.) 

“ A great  sea-fog  rolling  in,  a strong  wind  blow- 
ing, and  the  rain  coming  down  in  torrents 

all  day  long This  house  is  on  a great 

hill-side,  backed  up  by  woods  of  young  trees. 

It  faces  the  Haute  Ville  with  the  ramparts  and  j 
the  unfinished  cathedral — which  capital  object 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


298 


is  exactly  opposite  the  windows.  On  the  slope 
in  front,  going  steep  down  to  the  right,  all 
Boulogne  is  piled  and  jumbled  about  in  a very 
picturesque  manner.  The  viev/  is  charming — 
closed  in  at  last  by  the  tops  of  swelling  hills ; 
and  the  door  is  within  ten  minutes  of  the  post- 
office,  and  within  quarter  of  an  hour  of  the  sea. 
The  garden  is  made  in  terraces  up  the  hill-side, 
like  an  Italian  garden ; the  top  walks  being  in 
the  before-mentioned  woods.  The  best  part  of 
it  begins  at  the  level  of  the  house,  and  goes  up 
at  the  back,  a couple  of  hundred  feet  perhaps. 
There  are  at  present  thousands  of  roses  all  about 
the  house,  and  no  end  of  other  flowers.  There 
are  five  great  summer-houses,  and  (I  think) 
fifteen  fountains — not  one  of  which  (according 
to  the  invariable  French  custom)  ever  plays. 
The  house  is  a doll’s  house  of  many  rooms.  It 
is  one  story  high,  with  eight  and  thirty  steps  up 
and  down — tribune  wise — to  the  front  door  : the 
noblest  French  demonstration  I have  ever  seen 
I think.  It  is  a double  house;  and  as  there  are 
only  four  windows  and  a pigeon-hole  to  be 
beheld  in  front,  you  would  suppose  it  to  contain 
about  four  rooms.  Being  built  on  the  hill-side, 
the  top  story  of  the  house  at  the  back — there  are 
two  stories  there — opens  on  the  level  of  another 
garden.  On  the  ground  floor  there  is  a very 
pretty  hall,  almost  all  glass  ; a little  dining-room 
opening  on  a beautiful  conservatory,  which  is 
also  looked  into  through  a great  transparent 
glass  in  a mirror-frame  over  the  chimney-piece, 
just  as  in  Paxton’s  room  at  Chatsworth  ; a spare 
bed-room,  two  little  drawing-rooms  opening  into 
one  another,  the  family  bed-rooms,  a bath-room, 
a glass  corridor,  an  open  yard,  and  a kind  of 
kitchen  with  a machinery  of  stoves  and  boilers. 
Above,  there  are  eight  tiny  bed-rooms  all  open- 
ing on  one  great  room  in  the  roof,  originally 
intended  for  a billiard-room.  In  the  basement 
there  is  an  admirable  kitchen  with  every  con- 
ceivable requisite  in  it,  a noble  cellar,  first-rate 
man’s  room  and  pantry ; coach-house,  stable, 
coal-store,  and  wood-store ; and  in  the  garden 
is  a pavilion,  containing  an  excellent  spare  bed- 
room on  the  ground  floor.  The  getting-up  of 
these  places,  the  looking-glasses,  clocks,  little 
stoves,  all  manner  of  fittings,  must  be  seen  to  be 
appreciated.  The  conservatory  is  full  of  choice 
flowers  and  perfectly  beautiful.” 

Then  came  the  charm  of  the  letter,  his  de- 
scription of  his  landlord,  lightly  sketched  by  him 
in  print  as  M.  Loyal-Devasseur,  but  here  filled 
in  with  the  most  attractive  touches  his  loving 
hand  could  give.  “ But  the  landlord — M.  Beau- 
court — is  wonderful.  Everybody  here  has  two 
surnames  (I  cannot  conceive  why),  and  M. 


Beaucourt,  as  he  is  always  called,  is  by  rights 
M.  Beaucourt-Mutuel.  lie  is  a portly  jolly 
fellow  with  a fine  open  face;  lives  on  the  hill 
behind,  just  outside  the  top  of  the  garden ; and 
was  a linen  draper  in  the  town,  where  he  still 
has  a shop,  but  is  supposed  to  have  mortgaged 
his  business  and  to  be  in  difficulties — all  along 
of  this  place,  which  he  has  planted  with  his  own 
hands  ; which  he  cultivates  all  day ; and  which 
he  never  on  any  consideration  speaks  of  but  as 
“ the  property.”  He  is  extraordinarily  popular 
in  Boulogne  (the  people  in  the  shops  invariably 
brightening  up  at  the  mention  of  his  name,  and 
congratulating  us  upon  being  his  tenants),  and 
really  seems  to  deserve  it.  He  is  such  a liberal 
fellow  that  I can’t  bear  to  ask  him  for  anything, 
since  he  instantly  supplies  it  whatever  it  is.  The 
things  he  has  done  in  respect  of  unreasonable 
bedsteads  and  washing-stands,  I blush  to  think 
of.  I observed  the  other  day  in  one  of  the  side 
gardens — there  are  gardens  on  each  side  of  the 
house  too — a place  where  I thought  the  Comic 
Countryman”  (a  name  he  was  giving  just  then 
to  his  youngest  boy)  “ must  infallibly  trip  over, 
and  make  a little  descent  of  a dozen  feet.  So  I 
said  ‘ M.  Beaucourt  ’ — who  instantly  pulled  off 
his  cap  and  stood  bareheaded—'  there  are  some 
spare  pieces  of  w’ood  lying  by  the  cow-house,  if 
you  w'ould  have  the  kindness  to  have  one  laid 
across  here  I think  it  would  be  safer.’  ‘ Ah, 
mon  dieu  sir,’  said  M.  Beaucourt,  ‘ it  must  be 
iron.  This  is  not  a portion  of  the  property 
where  you  w'ould  like  to  sec  wood.’  ‘ But  iron 
is  so  expensive,’  said  I,  ‘ and  it  really  is  not 

worth  w'hile ’ ‘ Sir,  pardon  me  a thousand 

times,’  said  M.  Beaucourt,  ‘ it  shall  be  iron. 
Assuredly  and  perfectly  it  shall  be  iron.’  ‘ Then 
M.  Beaucourt,’  said  I,  ‘ I shall  be  glad  to  pay  a 
moiety  of  the  cost.’  ‘ Sir,’  said  M.  Beaucourt, 

‘ Never ! ’ Then  to  change  the  subject,  he  slided 
from  his  firmness  and  gravity  into  a graceful  con- 
versational tone,  and  said,  ‘ In  the  moonlight 
last  night,  the  flowers  on  the  property  appeared, 
O heaven,  to  be  bathing  themselves  in  the  sky. 
You  like  the  property?’  ‘M.  Beaucourt,’  said 
I,  ‘ I am  enchanted  with  it ; I am  more  than 
satisfied  with  everything.’  ‘ And  I sir,’  said  M. 
Beaucourt,  laying  his  cap  upon  his  breast,  and 
kissing  his  hand — ‘ I equally  ! ’ Yesterday  two 
blacksmiths  came  for  a day’s  w'ork,  and  put  up 
a good  solid  handsome  bit  of  iron-railing,  mor- 
ticed into  the  stone  parapet If  the  ex- 

traordinary things  in  the  house  defy  descrii)tion, 
the  amazing  phenomena  in  the  gardens  never 
could  have  been  dreamed  of  by  anybody  but  a 
Frenchman  bent  upon  one  itlea.  Besides  a 
portrait  of  the  house  in  the  dining-room,  there 


WARM  CORNER  IN  THE  PIG  MARKET  AT  ROULOGNE. 


THREE  SUMMERS  AT  BOULOGNE. 


is  a plan  of  the  property  in  the  hall.  It  looks 
about  the  size  of  Ireland  ; and  to  every  one  of 
the  extraordinary  objects  there  is  a reference 
with  some  portentous  name.  There  are  fifty-one 
such  references,  including  the  Cottage  of  Tom 
Thumb,  the  Bridge  of  Austerlitz,  the  Bridge  of 
Jena,  the  Hermitage,  the  Bower  of  the  Old 
Guard,  the  Labyrinth  (I  have  no  idea  which  is 
which) ; and  there  is  guidance  to  every  room  in 
the  house,  as  if  it  were  a place  on  that  stu- 
pendous scale  that  without  such  a clue  you  must 
infallibly  lose  your  way,  and  perhaps  perish  of 
starvation  between  bedroom  and  bedroom.” 

On  the  3rd  of  July  there  came  a fresh  trait  of 
the  good  fellow  of  a landlord.  “ Fancy  what 
Beaucourt  told  me  last  night.  When  he  ‘ con- 
ceived the  inspiration  ’ of  planting  the  property 
ten  years  ago,  he  went  over  to  England  to  buy 
the  trees,  took  a small  cottage  in  the  market- 
gardens  at  Putney,  lived  there  three  months, 
held  a symposium  every  night  attended  by  the 
principal  gardeners  of  Fulham,  Putney,  Kew, 
and  Hammersmith  (which  he  calls  Hamsterdam), 
and  wound  up  with  a supper  at  which  the  market- 
gardeners  rose,  clinked  their  glasses,  and  ex- 
claimed with  one  accord  (I  quote  him  exactly) 
Vive  Beaucourt  ! He  was  a captain  in  the  Na- 
tional Guard,  and  Cavaignac  his  general.  Brave 
Capitaine  Beaucourt ! said  Cavaignac,  you  must 
receive  a decoration.  My  General,  said  Beau- 
court, No  ! It  is  enough  for  me  that  I have  done 
my  duty.  I go  to  lay  the  first  stone  of  a house 
upon  a Property  I have — that  house  shall  be  my 
decoration.  (Regard  that  house  ! ) ” Addition  to 
the  picture  came  in  a letter  of  the  24th  of  July  : 
with  a droll  glimpse  of  Shakespeare  at  the 
theatre,  and  of  the  Saturday’s  pig-market. 

“ I may  mention  that  the  great  Beaucourt 
daily  changes  the  orthography  of  this  place. 
He  has  now  fixed  it,  by  having  painted  up  out- 
side the  garden  gate,  ‘ Entree  particuliere  de  la 
Villa  des  Moulineaux.’  On  another  gate  a little 
higher  up,  he  has  had  painted  ‘ Entree  des 
Ecuries  de  la  Villa  des  Moulineaux.’  On  an- 
other gate  a little  lower  down  (applicable  to  one 
of  the  innumerable  buildings  in  the  garden), 

‘ Entree  du  Tom  Pouce.’  On  the  highest  gate 
of  the  lot,  leading  to  his  own  house,  ‘ Entree  du 
Chateau  Napoleonienne.’  All  of  which  inscrip- 
tions you  will  behold  in  black  and  white  when 
you  come.  I see  little  of  him  now,  as,  all 
things  being  ‘ bien  arrangees,’  he  is  delicate  of 
appearing.  Plis  wife  has  been  making  a trip  in 
the  country  during  the  last  three  weeks,  but  (as 
he  mentioned  to  me  with  his  hat  in  his  hand) 
it  was  necessary  that  he  should  remain  here,  to 
be  continually  at  the  disposition  of  the  tenant 


299 


of  the  Property.  (The  better  to  do  this,  he  has 
had  roaring  dinner  parties  of  fifteen  daily  ; and 
the  old  woman  who  milks  the  cows  has  been 
fainting  up  the  hill  under  vast  burdens  of  cham- 
pagne.) 

“ We  went  to  the  theatre  last  night,  to  see  the 
Midsummer  Nighfs  Dreain — of  the  Opera  Co- 
mique.  It  is  a beautiful  little  theatre  now,  with 
a very  good  company;  and  the  nonsense  of  the 
piece  was  done  with  a sense  quite  confounding 
in  that  connexion.  Willy  Am  Shay  Kes  Peer ; 
Sirzhon  Foil  Stayffe  ; Lor  Lattimeer ; and  that 
celebrated  Maid  of  Honour  to  Queen  Elizabeth, 
Meees  Oleeveeir — were  the  principal  characters. 

“ Outside  the  old  town,  an  army  of  workmen 
are  (and  have  been  for  a week  or  so,  already) 
employed  upon  an  immense  building  which  I 
supposed  might  be  a Eort,  or  a Monastery,  or  a 
Barrack,  or  other  something  designed  to  last  for 
ages.  I find  it  is  for  the  annual  fair,  which  be- 
gins on  the  fifth  of  August  and  lasts  a fortnight. 
Almost  every  Sunday  we  have  a fete,  where 
there  is  dancing  in  the  open  air,  and  where  im- 
mense men  with  prodigious  beards  revolve  on 
little  wooden  horses  like  Italian  irons,  in  what 
we  islanders  call  a roundabout,  by  the  hour  to- 
gether. But  really  the  good  humour  and  cheer- 
fulness are  very  delightful.  Among  the  other 
sights  of  the  place,  there  is  a pig-market  every 
Saturday,  perfectly  insupportable  in  its  absurdity. 
An  excited  Erench  peasant,  male  or  female,  with 
a determined  young  pig,  is  the  most  amazing 
spectacle.  I skw  a little  Drama  enacted  yester- 
day week,  the  drollery  of  which  was  perfect. 
Tram.  Pers.  i.  A pretty  young  woman  with 
short  petticoats  and  trim  blue  stockings,  riding 
a donkey  with  two  baskets  and  a pig  in  each. 
2.  An  ancient  farmer  in  a blouse,  driving  four 
pigs,  his  four  in  hand,  with  an  enormous  whip — 
and  being  drawn  against  walls  and  into  smoking 
shops  by  any  one  of  the  four.  3.  A cart,  with 
an  old  pig  (manacled)  looking  out  of  it,  and 
terrifying  six  hundred  and  fifty  young  pigs  in 
the  market  by  his  terrific  grunts.  4.  Collector 
of  Octroi  in  an  immense  cocked  hat,  with  a 
stream  of  young  pigs  running,  night  and  day, 
between  his  military  boots,  and  rendering  ac- 
counts impossible.  5.  Inimitable,  confronted 
by  a radiation  of  elderly  pigs,  fastened  each  by 
one  leg  to  a bunch  of  stakes  in  the  ground.  6. 
John  Edmund  Reade,  poet,  expressing  eternal 
devotion  to  and  admiration  of  Landor,  uncon- 
scious of  approaching  pig  recently  escaped  from 
barrow.  7.  Priests,  peasants,  soldiers,  &c.  &c.” 

He  had  meanwhile  gathered  friendly  faces 
round  him.  Frank  Stone  went  over  with  his 
family  to  a house  taken  for  him  on  the  St.  Omer 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DLCKENS. 


300 


road  by  Dickens,  who  was  joined  in  the  chateau 
by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Leech  and  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins. 
“ Leech  says  that  when  he  stepped  from  the 
boat  after  their  stormy  passage,  he  was  received 
by  the  congregated  spectators  with  a distinct 
round  of  applause  as  by  far  the  most  intensely 
and  unutterably  miserable  looking  object  that 
had  yet  appeared.  The  laughter  was  tumultuous, 
and  he  wishes  his  friends  to  know  that  altogether 
he  made  an  immense  hit.”  So  passed  the  sum- 
mer months : excursions  with  these  friends  to 
Amiens  and  Beauvais  relieving  the  work  upon 
his  novel,  and  the  trip  to  Italy,  already  de- 
scribed, following  on  its  completion. 

In  June,  1854,  M.  Beaucourt  had  again  re- 
ceived his  famous  tenant,  but  in  another  cottage 
or  chateau  (to  him  convertible  terms)  on  the 
much  cherished  property,  placed  on  the  very 
summit  of  the  hill  with  a private  road  leading 
out  to  the  Column,  a really  pretty  place,  rooms 
larger  than  in  the  other  house,  a noble  sea  view, 
everywhere  nice  prospects,  good  garden,  and 
plenty  of  sloping  turf.  It  was  called  the  Villa 
du  Camp  de  Droite,  and  here  Dickens  stayed, 
as  I have  intimated,  until  the  eve  of  his  winter 
residence  in  Paris. 

The  formation  of  the  Northern  Camp  at  Bou- 
logne began  the  week  after  he  had  finished  Hard 
Times,  zXiA  he  watched  its  progress,  as  it  increased 
and  extended  itself  along  the  cliffs  towards 
Calais,  with  the  liveliest  amusement.  At  first 
he  was  startled  with  the  suddenness  with  which 
soldiers  overran  the  roads,  became  billeted  in 
every  house,  made  the  bridges  red  with  their  trow- 
sers,  and  “sprang  upon  the  pier  like  fantastic  mus- 
tard and  cress  when  boats  were  expected,  many 
of  them  never  having  seen  the  sea  before.”  But 
the  good  behaviour  of  the  men  had  a reconciling 
effect,  and  their  ingenuity  delighted  him.  The 
quickness  with  which  they  raised  whole  streets 
of  mud-huts,  less  picturesque  than  tlie  tents, 
but  (like  most  unpicturesque  things)  more  com- 
fortable, was  like  an  Arabian  Nights’  tale. 
“ Each  little  street  holds  144  men,  and  every 
corner-door  has  the  number  of  the  street  upon 
it  as  soon  as  it  is  put  up  ; and  the  postmen  can 
fall  to  work  as  easily  as  in  the  Rue  de  Rivoli  at 
Paris.”  His  patience  was  again  a little  tried 
when  he  found  baggage- wagons  ploughing  up 
his  favourite  walks,  and  trumpeters  in  twos  and 
tlirees  teaching  newly-recruited  trumpeters  in 
all  the  sylvan  places,  and  making  the  echoes 
hideous.  But  this  had  its  amusement  too.  “ I 
met  to-day  a weazen  sun-burnt  youth  from  the 
south  with  such  an  immense  regimental  shako 
on,  that  he  looked  like  a sort  of  lucifer  match- 
box, evidently  blowing  his  life  rapidly  out,  under 


the  auspices  of  two  magnificent  creatures  all 
hair  and  lungs,  of  such  breadth  across  the  shoul- 
ders that  I couldn’t  see  their  breast-buttons  when 
I stood  in  front  of  them.” 

The  interest  culminated  as  the  visit  of  the 
Prince  Consort  approached  with  its  attendant 
glories  of  illuminations  and  reviews.  Beau- 
court’s  excitement  became  intense.  The  Villa 
du  Camp  de  Droite  was  to  be  a blaze  of  triumph 
on  the  night  of  the  arrival ; Dickens,  who  had 
carried  over  with  him  the  meteor  flag  of  England 
and  set  it  streaming  over  a haystack  in  his  field, 
now  hoisted  the  French  colours  over  the  British 
Jack  in  honour  of  the  national  alliance ; the 
Emperor  was  to  subside  to  the  station  of  a 
general  officer,  so  that  all  the  rejoicings  should 
be  in  honour  of  the  Prince ; and  there  was  to  be 
a review  in  the  open  country  near  Wimereux, 
when  “ at  one  stage  of  the  maneuvres  (I  am 
too  excited  to  spell  the  word,  but  you  know  what 
I mean)”  the  whole  hundred  thousand  men  in 
the  camp  of  the  North  were  to  be  j^laced  before 
the  Prince’s  eyes,  to  show  what  a division  of  the 
French  army  might  be.  “ I believe  everything 
I hear,”  said  Dickens.  It  was  the  state  of  mind 
of  Hood’s  country  gentleman  after  the  fire  at 
the  Houses  of  Parliament.  “ Beaucourt,  as  one 
of  the  town  council,  receives  summonses  to  turn 
out  and  debate  about  something,  or  receive 
somebody,  every  five  minutes.  Whenever  I look 
out  of  window,  or  go  to  the  door,  I see  an  im- 
mense black  object  at  Beaucourt’s  porch  like  a 
boat  set  up  on  end  in  the  air  with  a pair  of 
white  trowsers  below  it.  This  is  the  cocked  hat 
of  an  official  Huissier,  newly  arrived  with  a 
summons,  whose  head  is  thrown  back  as  he  is 
in  the  act  of  drinking  Beaucourt’s  wine.”  The 
day  came  at  last,  and  all  Boulogne  turned  out 
for  its  holiday  ; “ but  I,”  Dickens  wrote,  “ had 
by  this  cooled  down  a little,  and,  reserving  my- 
self for  the  illuminations,  I abandoned  the  great 
men  and  set  off  upon  my  usual  country  walk. 
See  my  reward.  Coming  home  by  the  Calais 
roail,  covered  with  dust,  I suddenly  find  myself 
face  to  face  with  Albert  and  Napoleon,  jogging 
along  in  the  pleasantest  way,  a little  in  front, 
talking  extremely  loud  about  the  view,  and 
attended  by  a brilliant  staff  of  some  sixty  or 
seventy  horsemen,  with  a couple  of  our  royal 
grooms  with  their  red  coats  riding  oddly 
enough  in  the  midst  of  the  magnates.  I took 
off  my  wide-awake  without  stopping  to  stare, 
whereupon  the  Emi)eror  jnillcd  off  his  cockcnl 
hat ; and  Albert  (seeing,  I suppose,  that  it  was 
an  Englishman)  pulled  off  his.  Then  we  went 
our  several  ways.  'I'he  Emperor  is  broader 
across  the  chest  than  in  the  old  times  when  we 


THREE  SUMMERS  AT  BOULOGNE. 


used  to  see  him  so  often  st  Gore-House,  and 
stoops  more  in  the  shoulders.  Indeetl  his  car- 
ri'ige  thereabouts  is  like  Fonblanque’s.”  The 
town  he  described  as  “ one  great  flag  ” for  the 
rest  of  the  visit ; ami  to  the  success  of  the  illu- 
minations he  contributed  largely  himself  by 
leading  off  splendidly  with  a hundred  and  twenty 
wa.x  candles  blazing  in  his  seventeen  front  win- 
dows, and  visible  from  that  great  height  over  all 
the  place.  “ On  the  first  eruption  Beaucourt 
danced  and  screamed  on  the  grass  before  the 
door ; and  when  he  was  more  composed,  set  off 
with  Madame  Beaucourt  to  look  at  the  house 
from  every  possible  quarter,  and,  he  said,  collect 
the  suffrages  of  his  compatriots.” 

Their  suffrages  seem  to  have  gone,  however, 
mainly  in  another  direction.  “ It  was  wonder- 
ful,” Dickens  wrote,  “ to  behold  about  the  streets 
the  small  French  soldiers  of  the  line  seizing  our 
Guards  by  the  hand  and  embracing  them.  It 
was  wonderful,  too,  to  behold  the  English  sailors 
in  the  town,  shaking  hands  with  everybody  and 
generally  patronizing  everything.  When  the 
people  could  not  get  hold  of  either  a soldier  or 
a sailor,  they  rejoiced  in  the  royal  grooms,  and 
embraced  them.  I don’t  think  the  Boulogne 
people  were  surprised  by  anything  so  much,  as 
by  the  three  cheers  the  crew  of  the  yacht  gave 
when  the  Emperor  went  aboard  to  lunch.  The 
prodigious  volume  of  them,  and  the  precision, 
and  the  circumstance  that  no  man  was  left 
straggling  on  his  own  account  either  before  .or 
afterwards,  seemed  to  strike  the  general  mind 
with  amazement.  Beaucourt  said  it  was  like 
boxingS  That  was  written  on  the  loth  of  Sep- 
tember; but  in  a very  few  days  Dickens  was 
unwillingly  convinced  that  whatever  the  friendly 
disposition  to  England  might  be,  the  war  with 
Russia  w'as  decidedly  unpopular.  He  was  pre- 
sent when  the  false  report  of  the  taking  of  Sebas- 
topol reached  the  Emperor  and  Empress.  “ I 
was  at  the  review”  (8th  of  October)  “yesterday 
week,  very  near  the  Emperor  and  Empress,  when 
the  taking  of  Sebastopol  was  announced.  It  was 
a magnificent  show  on  a magnificent  day ; and 
if  any  circumstance  could  make  it  special,  the 
arrival  of  the  telegraphic  dispatch  would  be  the 
culminating  point  one  might  suppose.  It  quite 
disturbed  and  mortified  me  to  find  how  faintly, 
feebly,  miserably,  the  men  responded  to  the  call 
of  the  officers  to  cheer,  as  each  regiment  passed 
by.  Fifty  excited  Englishmen  would  make  a 
greater  sign  and  sound  than  a thousand  of  these 

men  do The  Empress  was  very  pretty, 

and  her  slight  figure  sat  capitally  on  her  grey 
horse.  When  the  Emperor  gave  her  the  dis- 
patch to  read,  she  flushed  and  fired  up  in  a very 


pleasant  w'ay,  and  kissed  it  with  as  natural  an 
impulse  as  one  could  desire  to  see.” 

On  the  night  of  that  day  Dickens  went  up  to 
see  a play  acted  at  a cafe  at  the  camp,  and  found 
himself  one  of  an  audience  composed  wholly  of 
officers  and  men,  with  only  four  ladies  among 
them,  officers’  wives.  The  stead}',  working, 
sensible  faces  all  about  him  told  their  own 
story;  “and  as  to  kindness  and  consideration 
towards  the  poor  actors,  it  was  real  benevo- 
lence.” Another  attraction  at  the  camp  was  a 
conjuror,  who  had  been  called  to  exhibit  twice 
before  the  imperial  party,  and  whom  Dickens 
always  afterwards  referred  to  as  the  most  con- 
summate master  of  legerdemain  he  had  seen. 
Nor  was  he  a mean  authority  as  to  this,  being 
himself,  with  his  tools  at  hand,  a capital  con- 
juror ; but  the  Frenchman  scorned  help,  stood 
among  the  company  without  any  sort  of  appa- 
ratus, and,  by  the  mere  force  of  sleight  of  hand 
and  an  astonishing  memory,  performed  feats 
having  no  likeness  to  anything  Dickens  had 
ever  seen  done,  and  totally  inexplicable  to  his 
most  vigilant  reflection.  “ So  far  as  I know,  a 
perfectly  original  genius,  and  that  puts  any  sort 
of  knowledge  of  legerdemain,  such  as  I supposed 
that  I possessed,  at  utter  defiance.”  The  account 
he  gave  dealt  with  two  exploits  only,  the  easiest 
to  describe,  and,  not  being  with  cards,  not  the 
most  remarkable ; for  he  would  also  say  of  this 
Frenchman  that  he  transformed  cards  into  very 
demons.  He  never  saw  a human  hand  touch 
them  in  the  same  way,  fling  them  about  so 
amazingly,  or  change  them  in  his,  one’s  own,  or 
another’s  hand,  with  a skill  so  impossible  to 
follow. 

“ You  are  to  observe  that  he  was  with  the 
co7npany,  not  in  the  least  removed  from  them  ; 
and  that  we  occupied  the  front  row.  He  brought 
in  some  writing  paper  with  him  when  he  entered, 
and  a black-lead  pencil ; and  he  wrote  some 
words  on  half-sheets  of  paper.  One  of  these 
half-sheets  he  folded  into  two,  and  gave  to 
Catherine  to  hold.  Madame,  he  says  aloud, 
will  you  think  of  any  class  of  objects  ? I have 
done  so. — Of  what  class,  Madame  ? Animals. — 
Will  you  think  of  a particular  animal,  Madame  ? 
I have  done  so. — Of  what  animal?  The  Lion. 
— Will  you  think  of  another  class  of  objects, 
Madame?  I have  done  so. — Of  what  class? 
Flowers. — The  particular  flower  ? The  Rose. 
— Will  you  open  the  paper  you  hold  in  your 
hand  ? She  opened  it,  and  there  was  neatly 
and  plainly  written  in  pencil — The  Lion.  The 
Rose.  Nothing  whatever  had  led  up  to  these 
words,  and  they  were  the  most  distant  conceiv- 
able from  Catherine’s  thoughts  when  she  entered 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


the  room.  He  had  several  common  scliool- 
slates  about  a foot  square.  He  took  one  of 
these  to  a field-officer  from  the  camp,  decore 
and  what  not,  who  sat  about  six  from  us,  rvith  a 
grave  saturnine  friend  next  him.  My  General, 
says  he,  will  you  write  a name  on  this  slate,  after 
your  friend  has  done  so  ? Don’t  show  it  to  me. 
The  friend  wrote  a name,  and  the  General  wrote 
a name.  The  conjuror  took  the  slate  rapidly 
from  the  officer,  threw  it  violently  down  on  the 
ground  with  its  written  side  to  the  floor,  and 
asked  the  officer  to  put  his  foot  upon  it  and 
keep  it  there  ; which  he  did.  The  conjuror 
considered  for  about  a minute,  looking  devilish 
hard  at  the  General. — My  General,  says  he, 
your  friend  wrote  Dagobert,  upon  the  slate 
under  your  foot.  The  friend  admits  it. — And 
you,  my  General,  wrote  Nicholas.  General  ad- 
mits it,  and  everybody  laughs  and  applauds. — 
My  General,  will  you  excuse  me,  if  I change 
that  name  into  a name  expressive  of  the  power 
of  a great  nation,  which,  in  happy  alliance  with 
the  gallantry  and  spirit  of  France  will  shake 
that  nam.e  to  its  centre  Certainly  I will  e.xcuse 
it. — My  General,  take  up  the  slate  and  read. 
General  reads  ; Dagobert,  Victoria.  The  first 
in  his  friend’s  writing ; the  second  in  a new 
hand.  I never  saw  anything  in  the  least  like 
this ; or  at  all  approaching  to  the  absolute  cer- 
tainty, the  familiarity,  quickness,  absence  of  all 
machinery,  and  actual  face-to-face,  hand-to-hand 
fairness  between  the  conjuror  and  the  audience, 
with  which  it  was  done.  I have  not  the  slightest 
idea  of  the  secret. — One  more.  He  was  blinded 
with  several  table  napkins,  and  then  a great 
■cloth  was  bodily  thrown  over  them  and  his  head 
too,  so  that  his  voice  sounded  as  if  he  were 
under  a bed.  Perhaps  half  a dozen  dates  were 
written  on  a slate.  He  takes  the  slate  in  his 
hand,  and  throws  it  violently  down  on  the  floor, 
as  before,  remains  silent  a minute,  seems  to  be- 
come agitated,  and  bursts  out  thus  : ‘ What  is 
this  I see  ? A great  city,  but  of  narrow  streets 
and  old-fashioned  houses,  many  of  which  are  of 
w'ood,  resolving  itself  into  ruins  ! How  is  it 
falling  into  ruins  ? Hark  ! I hear  the  crackling 
of  a great  conflagration,  and,  looking  up,  I be- 
hold a vast  cloud  of  flame  and  smoke.  The 
ground  is  covered  with  hot  cinders  too,  and 
people  are  flying  into  the  fields  and  endeavour- 
ing to  save  their  goods.  This  great  fire,  this 
great  wind,  this  roaring  noise  ! This  is  the  great 
fire  of  London,  and  the  first  date  upon  the  slate 
must  be  one,  six,  six,  six — the  year  in  which  it 
happened  ! ’ And  so  on  with  all  the  other  dates. 
There  ! Now,  if  you  m ill  take  a cab  and  impart 
these  mysteries  to  Rogers,  I shall  be  very  glad 


to  have  his  opinion  of  them.”  Rogers  had  taxed 
our  credulity  with  some  wonderful  clairvoyant 
experiences  of  his  own  in  Paris,  to  which  here 
was  a parallel  at  last ! 

When  leaving  Paris  for  his  third  visit  to  Bou- 
logne, at  the  beginning  of  June  1856,116  had  not 
written  a word  of  the  ninth  number  of  his  new 
book,  and  did  not  expect  for  another  month  to 
“ see  land  from  the  running  sea  of  Little  DorritC 
He  had  resumed  the  house  he  first  occupied,  the 
cottage  or  villa  “ des  Moulineaux,”  and  after 
dawdling  about  his  garden  for  a few  days  with 
surprising  industry  in  a French  farmer  garb  of 
blue  blouse,  leathern  belt,  and  military  cap, 
which  he  had  mounted  as  “the  only  one  for 
complete  comfort,”  he  wrote  to  me  that  he  was 
getting  “Now  to  work  again — to  work!  The 
story  lies  before  me,  I hope,  strong  and  clear. 
Not  to  be  easily  told;  but  nothing  of  that  sort 
IS  to  be  easily  done  that  / know  of.”  At  work 
it  became  his  habit  to  sit  late,  and  then,  putting 
off  his  usual  walk  until  night,  to  lie  down  among 
the  roses  reading  until  after  tea  (“  middle-aged 
Love  in  a blouse  and  belt”),  when  he  went 
down  to  the  pier.  “ The  said  pier  at  evening  is 
a phase  of  the  place  we  never  see,  and  which  I 
hardly  knew.  But  I never  did  behold  such 
specimens  of  the  youth  of  my  countiy,  male  and 
female,  as  pervade  that  place.  They  arc  really, 
in  their  vulgarity  and  insolence,  quite  disheart- 
ening. One  is  so  fearfully  ashamed  of  them, 
and  they  contrast  so  very  unfavourably  with  the 
natives.”  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins  was  again  his  com- 
panion in  the  summer  weeks,  and  the  presence 
of  Jerrold  for  the  greater  part  of  the  time  added 
much  to  his  enjoyment. 

The  last  of  the  camp  was  now  at  hand.  It 
had  only  a battalion  of  men  in  it,  and  a few 
days  would  see  them  out.  At  first  there  was 
horrible  weather,  “ storms  of  wind,  rushes  of 
rain,  heavy  squalls,  cold  airs,  sea  fogs,  banging 
shutters,  flapping  doors,  and  beaten  down  rose- 
trees  by  the  hundred ; ” but  then  came  a de- 
lightful week  among  the  corn  fields  and  bean 
fields,  and  afterwards  the  end.  “ It  looks  very 
singular  and  very  miserable.  The  soil  being 
sand,  and  the  grass  having  been  trodden  away 
these  two  years,  the  wind  from  the  sea  carries 
the  sand  into  the  chinks  and  ledges  of  all  the 
doors  and  windows,  and  chokes  them  ; — just  as 
if  they  belonged  to  Arab  huts  in  the  desert.  A 
number  of  the  non-commissioned  officers  made 
turf-couches  outside  their  huts,  and  there  were 
turf  orchestras  for  the  bands  to  play  in ; all  cf 
which  are  fast  getting  sanded  over  in  a most 
Egyptian  manner.  Tlic  Fair  is  on,  under  the 
walls  of  the  haute  ville  over  the  way.  .^t  one 


THREE  SUMMERS  AT  BOULOGNE. 


popular  show,  the  Malakhol'f  is  taken  every  half- 
hour  between  4 and  11.  Bouncing  explosions 
announce  every  triumph  of  the  French  arms  (the 
English  have  nothing  to  do  with  it) ; and  in  the 
intervals  a man  outside  blows  a railway  whistle 
— straight  into  the  dining-room.  Do  you  know 
that  the  French  soldiers  call  their  English  medal 
‘ The  Salvage  Medal  ’ — meaning  that  they  got  it 
for  saving  the  English  army  ? I don’t  suppose 
there  are  a thousand  people  in  all  France  who 
believe  that  we  did  anything  but  get  rescued  by 
the  French.  And  I am  confident  that  the  no- 
result of  our  precious  Chelsea  enquiry  has  won- 
derfully strengthened  this  conviction.  Nobody 
at  home  has  yet  any  adequate  idea,  I am  de- 
plorably sure,  of  what  the  Barnacles  and  the  Cir- 
cumlocution Office  have  done  for  us.  But  when- 
ever we  get  into  war  again,  the  people  will  begin 
to  find  out.” 

Flis  own  household  had  got  into  a small  war 
already,  of  which  the  commander-in-chief  was 
his  man-servant  “ French,”  the  bulk  of  the  forces 
engaged  being  his  children,  and  the  invaders 
two  cats.  Business  brought  him  to  London  on 
the  hostilities  breaking  out,  and  on  his  return 
after  a few  days  the  story  of  the  war  was  told. 
“ Dick,”  it  should  be  said,  was  a canary  very 
dear  both  to  Dickens  and  his  eldest  daughter, 
who  had  so  tamed  to  her  loving  hand  its  wild 
little  heart  that  it  was  become  the  most  docile 
of  companions.  “ The  only  thing  new  in  this 
garden  is  that  war  is  raging  against  two  particu- 
larly tigerish  and  fearful  cats  (from  the  mill,  I 
suppose),  which  are  always  glaring  in  dark 
corners,  after  our  wonderful  little  Dick.  Keeping 
the  house  open  at  all  points,  it  is  impossible  to 
shut  them  out,  and  they  hide  themselves  in  the 
most  terrific  manner;  hanging  themselves  up 
behind  draperies,  like  bats,  and  tumbling  out  in 
the  dead  of  night  with  frightful  caterwaulings. 
Hereupon  French  borrows  Beaucourt’s  gun, 
loads  the  same  to  the  muzzle,  discharges  it  twice 
in  vain  and  throws  himself  over  with  the  recoil, 
exactly  like  a clown.  But  at  last  (while  I was 
in  town)  he  aims  at  the  more  amiable  cat  of  the 
two,  and  shoots  that  animal  dead.  Insufferably 
elated  by  this  victory,  he  is  now  engaged  from 
morning  to  night  in  hiding  behind  bushes  to  get 
aim  at  the  other.  He  does  nothing  else  what- 
ever, All  the  boys  encourage  him  and  watch 
for  the  enemy — on  whose  appearance  they  give 
an  alarm  which  immediately  serves  as  a warning 
to  the  creature,  who  runs  away.  They  are  at 
this  moment  (ready  dressed  for  church)  all  lying 
on  their  stomachs  in  various  parts  of  the  garden. 
Horrible  whistles  give  notice  to  the  gun  what 
point  it  is  to  approach.  I am  afraid  to  go  out, 


303 


lest  I should  be  shot.  Mr.  Plornish  says  his 
prayers  at  night  in  a w'hisper,  lest  the  cat  should 
overhear  him  and  take  offence.  The  tradesmen 
cry  out  as  they  come  up  the  avenue,  ‘ Me  voici  ! 
C’est  moi — boulanger — ne  tirez  pas.  Monsieur 
Franche  ! ’ It  is  like  living  in  a state  of  siege  ; 
and  the  wonderful  manner  in  w'hich  the  cat  pre- 
serves the  character  of  being  the  only  person 
not  much  put  out  by  the  intensity  of  this  mono- 
mania, is  most  ridiculous.”  (6th  of  July.)  .... 
“ About  four  pounds  of  ijow'der  and  half  a ton 
of  shot  have  been  ” (13th  of  July)  “ fired  off  at 
the  cat  (and  the  public  in  general)  during  the 
week.  The  finest  thing  is  that  immediately  after 
I have  heard  the  noble  sportsman  blazing  away 
at  her  in  the  garden  in  front,  I look  out  of  my 
room  door  into  the  draw’ing-room,  and  am  pretty 
sure  to  see  her  coming  in  after  the  birds,  in  the 
calmest  manner,  by  the  back  window.  Intelli- 
gence has  been  brought  to  me  from  a source  on 
which  I can  rely,  that  French  has  newly  con- 
ceived the  atrocious  project  of  tempting  her 
into  the  coach-house  by  meat  and  kindness,  and 
there,  from  an  elevated  portmanteau,  blow’ing 
her  head  off.  This  I mean  sternly  to  interdict, 
and  to  do  so  to-day  as  a work  of  piety.” 

Besides  the  graver  work  which  Mr.  Wilkie 
Collins  and  himself  were  busy  with,  in  these 
months,  and  by  wdrich  Household  Words  mainly 
was  to  profit,  some  lighter  matters  occupied  the 
leisure  of  both.  There  were  to  be,  at  Christmas, 
theatricals  again  at  Tavistock  House,;  in  which 
the  children,  with  the  help  of  their  father  and 
other  friends,  were  to  follow  up  the  success  of 
the  Lighthoim  by  again  acquitting  themselves  as 
grown-up  actors  ; and  Mr.  Collins  was  busy  pre- 
paring for  them  a new  drama  to  be  called  The 
Frozen  Deep,  while  Dickens  was  sketching  a farce 
for  Mr.  Lemon  to  fill  in.  But  this  pleasant 
employment  had  sudden  and  sad  interruption. 

An  epidemic  broke  out  in  the  town,  affecting 
the  children  of  several  families  known  to  Dickens, 
among  them  that  of  his  friend  Mr.  Gilbert 
A’Beckett ; who,  upon  arriving  from  Paris,  and 
finding  a favourite  little  son  stricken  dangerously, 
sank  himself  under  an  illness  from  which  he  had 
been  suffering,  and  died  two  days  after  the  boy. 
“ He  had  for  three  days  shown  symptoms  of 
rallying,  and  we  had  some  hope  of  his  recovery ; 
but  he  sank  and  died,  and  never  even  knew  that 
the  child  had  gone  before  him.  A sad,  sad  story.” 
Dickens  meanwhile  had  sent  his  own  children 
home  with  his  wife,  and  the  rest  soon  followed. 
Poor  M.  Beaucourt  was  inconsolable.  “ The 
desolation  of  the  place  is  wretched.  When 
Mamey  and  Katey  went,  Beaucourt  came  in  and 
wept.  He  really  is  almost  broken-hearted  about 


304 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICLCENS. 


it.  He  had  planted  all  manner  of  flowers  for 
next  month,  and  has  thrown  down  the  spade 
and  left  off  weeding  the  garden,  so  that  it  looks 
something  like  a dreary  bird-cage  with  all  manner 
of  grasses  and  chickweeds  sticking  through  the 
bars  and  lying  in  the  sand.  ‘ Such  a loss  too,’ 
he  says,  ‘ for  Monsieur  Dickens  ! ’ Then  he 
looks  in  at  the  kitchen  window  (which  seems  to 
be  his  only  reliefj,  and  sighs  himself  up  the  hill 
home.” 

Another  word  is  to  be  said  of  this  excellent 
man.  The  most  touching  traits  recorded  of  him 
by  Dickens  have  not  had  mention  here,  because 
they  refer  to  the  generosity  shown  by  him  to  an 
English  family  in  occupation  of  another  of  his 
houses,  in  connection  with  whom  his  losses  must 
have  been  considerable,  but  for  whom  he  had 
nothing  but  help  and  sympathy.  Replying  to 
some  questions  about  them,  put  by  Dickens  one 
day,  he  had  only  enlarged  on  their  sacrifices  and 
self-denials.  “ Ah,  that  family,  unfortunate  ! 

‘ And  you.  Monsieur  Beaucourt,’  I said  to  him, 
‘you  are  unfortunate  too,  God  knows  !’  Upon 
which  he  said  in  the  pleasantest  way  in  the 
world.  Ah,  Monsieur  Dickens,  thank  you,  don’t 
speak  of  it  !— And  backed  himself  down  the 
avenue  with  his  cap  in  his  hand,  as  if  he  were 
going  to  back  himself  straight  into  the  evening 
star,  without  the  ceremony  of  dying  first.  1 
never  did  see  such  a gentle,  kind  heart.”  The 
interval  of  residence  in  Paris  between  these  two 
last  visits  to  Boulogne  is  now  to  be  described. 


V. 

RESIDENCE  IN  PARIS. 

1855—1856. 

Paris  Dickens’s  life  was  passed 
among  artists,  and  in  the  exercise 
of  his  own  art.  His  associates  were 
writers,  painters, actors,  or  musicians, 
and  when  he  wanted  relief  from  any 
strain  of  work  he  found  it  at  the 
theatre.  The  years  since  his  last  resi- 
dence in  the  great  city  had  made  him 
better  known,  and  the  increased  atten- 
tions pleased  him.  He  had  to  help  in  preparing 
for  a translation  of  his  books  into  French;  and 
this,  with  continued  labour  at  the  story  he  had 
in  hand,  occupied  him  as  long  as  he  remained. 
It  will  be  all  best  told  by  extracts  from  his 
letters ; in  which  the  people  he  met,  the  theatres 
he  visited,  and  the  incidents,  public  or  private. 


that  seemed  to  him  worthy  of  mention,  reappear 
with  the  old  force  and  liveliness. 

Nor  is  anything  better  worth  preserving  from 
them  than  choice  bits  of  description  of  an  actor 
or  a drama,  for  this  perishable  enjoyment  has 
only  so  much  as  may  survive  out  of  such  recol- 
lections to  witness  lor  itself  to  another  genera- 
tion ; and  an  unusually  high  place  may  be  chal- 
lenged for  the  subtlety  and  delicacy  of  what  is 
said  in  these  letters  of  things  theatrical,  when 
the  writer  was  especially  attracted  by  a performer 
or  a play.  Frederic  Lemaitre  has  never  had  a 
higher  tribute  than  Dickens  paid  to  him  during 
his  few  days’  earlier  stay  at  Paris  {ante,  297)  in 
the  spring. 

“ Incomparably  the  finest  acting  I ever  saw, 
I saw  last  night  at  the  Ambigu.  They  have  re- 
vived that  old  piece,  once  immensely  popular  in 
London  under  the  name  of  Thirty  Years  of  a 
Gambler  s Life.  Old  Lemaitre  jDlays  his  famous 
character,  and  never  did  I see  anything,  in  art, 
so  exaltedly  horrible  and  awful.  In  the  earlier 
acts  he  was  so  w'ell  made  up,  and  so  light  and 
active,  that  he  really  looked  sufficiently  young. 
But  in  the  last  two,  when  he  had  grown  old  and 
miserable,  he  did  the  finest  things,  I really  be- 
lieve, that  are  within  the  power  of  acting.  Two 
or  three  times  a great  cry  of  horror  went  all 
round  the  house.  When  he  met,  in  the  inn 
yard,  the  traveller  whom  he  murders,  and  first 
saw  his  money,  the  manner  in  which  the  crime 
came  into  his  head — and  eyes — was  as  truthful 
as  it  was  terrific.  This  traveller,  being  a good 
fellow,  gives  him  wine.  You  should  see  the  dim 
remembrance  of  his  belter  days  that  comes  over 
him  as  he  takes  the  glass,  and  in  a strange  dazed 
way  makes  as  if  he  were  going  to  touch  the  other 
man’s,  or  do  some  airy  thing  with  it ; and  then 
stops  and  flings  the  contents  down  his  hot  throat, 
as  if  he  were  pouring  it  into  a lime-kiln.  But 
this  w'as  nothing  to  what  follow's  after  he  has 
done  the  murder,  and  comes  home,  with  a 
basket  of  provisions,  a ragged  pocket  full  of 
money,  and  a badly-washed  bloody  right  hand 
which  his  little  girl  finds  out.  After  the  child 
asked  him  if  he  had  hurt  his  hand,  his  going 
aside,  turning  himself  round,  and  looking  over 
all  his  clothes  for  sjjots,  was  so  inexpressibly 
dreadful  that  it  really  scared  one.  He  called  for 
wine,  and  the  sickness  that  came  upon  him 
when  he  saw  the  colour,  was  one  of  the  things 
that  brought  out  the  curious  cry  I have  spoken 
of  from  the  audience.  Then  he  fell  into  a sort 
of  bloody  mist,  and  went  on  to  the  end  groping 
about,  with  no  mind  for  anytliing,  except  making 
his  fortune  by  staking  this  money,  and  a faint 
dull  kind  of  love  for  the  chikl.  It  is  cpiite  im- 


RESIDENCE  IN  PARIS. 


possible  to  satisfy  one’s-self  by  saying  enough  of 
this  magnificent  performance.  1 have  never  seen 
him  come  near  its  finest  points  in  anything 
else.  He  said  two  things  in  a way  that  alone 
would  put  him  firr  apart  from  all  other  actors. 
One  to  his  wife,  when  he  has  exultingly  shown 
her  the  money,  and  she  has  asked  him  how  he 
got  it — ‘ I found  it  ’ — and  the  other  to  his  old 
companion  and  tempter,  when  he  was  charged 
by  him  with  having  killed  that  traveller,  and 
suddenly  went  headlong  mad  and  took  him  by 
the  throat  and  howled  out,  ‘ It  wasn’t  I who 
murdered  him — it  was  Misery!’  And  such  a 
dress  ; such  a face ; and,  above  all,  such  an  ex- 
traordinary guilty  wicked  thing  as  he  made  of  a 
knotted  branch  of  a tree  which  was  his  walking- 
stick,  from  the  moment  when  the  idea  of  the 
murder  came  into  his  head  I I could  write 
pages  about  him.  It  is  an  impression  quite  in- 
effaceable. He  got  half-boastful  of  that  walking- 
staff  to  himself,  and  half-afraid  of  it ; and  didn’t 
know  whether  to  be  grimly  pleased  that  it  had 
the  jagged  end,  or  to  hate  it  and  be  horrified  at 
it.  He  sat  at  a little  table  in  the  inn-yard,  drink- 
ing with  the  traveller ; and  this  horrible  stick 
got  between  them  like  the  Devil,  while  he 
counted  on  his  fingers  the  uses  he  could  put  the 
money  to.” 

That  was  at  the  close  of  February.  In  Oc- 
tober, Dickens’s  longer  residence  began.  He 
betook  himself  with  his  family,  after  two  unsuc- 
cessful attempts  in  the  new  region  of  the  Rue 
Balzac  and  Rue  Lord  Byron,  to  an  apartment 
in  the  Avenue  des  Champs  Elysees.  Over  him 
was  an  English  bachelor  with  an  establishment 
consisting  of  an  English  groom  and  five  English 
horses.  “ The  concierge  and  his  wife  told  us 
that  his  name  was  Six,  which  drove  me  nearly 
mad  until  we  discovered  it  to  be  Sykes.”  The 
situation  was  a good  one,  very  cheerful  for  him- 
self and  with  amusement  for  his  children.  It 
was  a quarter  of  a mile  above  Fran  coni’s  on  the 
other  side  of  the  way,  and  within  a door  or  two 
of  the  Jardin  d’Hiver.  The  Exposition  was 
just  below;  the  Barriere  de  I’Etoile  from  a 
quarter  to  half  a mile  below;  and  all  Paris, 
including  Emperor  and  Empress,  coming  from 
and  returning  to  St.  Cloud,  thronged  past  the 
windows  in  open  carriages  or  on  horseback,  all 
day  long.  Now  it  was  he  found  himself  more 
of  a celebrity  than  when  he  had  wintered  in  the 
city  nine  years  before ; the  feuilleton  of  the 
Monifeiir  was  filled  daily  with  a translation  of 
Chiizzlewit ; and  he  had  soon  to  consider  the 
proposal  I have  named,  to  publish  in  French  his 
collected  novels  and  tales.  Before  he  had  been 
a week  in  his  new  abode.  Ary  Scheffer,  “ a frank 


305 


and  noble  fellow,”  had  made  his  acquaintance ; 
introduced  him  to  several  distinguished  French- 
men ; and  expressed  the  wish  to  paint  him.  To 
Scheffer  was  also  due  an  advantage  obtained  for 
my  friend’s  two  little  daughters  of  which  they 
may  always  keep  the  memory  with  pride. 
“ Mamey  and  Katey  are  learning  Italian,  and 
their  master  is  Manin  of  Venetian  fame,  the  best 
and  the  noblest  of  those  unhappy  gentlemen. 
He  came  here  with  a wife  and  a beloved 
daughter,  and  they  are  both  dead.  Scheffer 
made  him  known  to  me,  and  has  been,  I under- 
stand, wonderfully  generous  and  good  to  him.” 
Nor  may  I omit  to  state  the  enjoyment  afforded 
him,  not  only  by  the  presence  in  Paris  during  the 
winter  of  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins  and  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
White  of  Bonchurch,  but  by  the  many  friends 
from  England  whom  the  Art  Exposition  brought 
over.  Sir  Alexander  Cockburn  was  one  of  these  ; 
Edwin  Landseer,  Charles  Robert  Leslie,  and 
William  Boxall,  were  others.  Macready  left  his 
retreat  at  Sherborne  to  make  him  a visit  of 
several  days.  Thackeray  went  to  and  fro  all 
the  time  between  London  and  his  mother’s 
house,  in  the  Champs  Elysees  too,  where  his 
daughters  were.  Paris  for  the  time  was  also  the 
home  of  Robert  Lytton,  who  belonged  to  the 
Embassy,  of  the  Sartorises,  of  the  Brownings, 
and  of  others  whom  Dickens  liked  and  cared 
for. 

At  the  first  play  he  went  to,  the  performance 
was  stopped  while  the  news  of  the  last  Crimean 
engagement,  just  issued  in  a supplement  to  the 
Moniteur,  was  read  from  the  stage.  “ It  made 
not  the  faintest  effect  upon  the  audience ; and 
even  the  hired  claqueurs,  who  had  been  absurdly 
loud  during  the  piece,  seemed  to  consider  the 
war  not  at  all  within  their  contract,  and  were  as 
stagnant  as  ditch-water.  The  theatre  was  full. 
It  is  quite  impossible  to  see  such  apathy,  and 
suppose  the  war  to  be  popular,  whatever  may  be 
asserted  to  the  contrary.”  The  day  before,  he 
had  met  the  Emperor  and  the  King  of  Sardinia 
in  the  streets,  “ and,  as  usual,  no  man  touching 
his  hat,  and  very  very  few  so  much  as  looking 
round.” 

The  success  of  a most  agreeable  little  piece 
by  our  old  friend  Regnier  took  him  next  to  the 
Erangais,  where  Plessy’s  acting  enchanted  him. 
“ Of  course  the  interest  of  it  turns  upon  a flawed 
piece  of  living  china  (that  seems  to  be  positively 
essential),  but  as  in  most  of  these  cases,  if  you 
will  accept  the  position  in  which  you  find  the 
people,  you  have  nothing  more  to  bother  your 
morality  about.”  The  theatre  in  the  Rue  Riche- 
lieu, however,  was  not  generally  his  favourite 
resort.  He  used  to  talk  of  it  whimsically  as  a 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICICENS. 


306 


kind  of  tomb,  where  you  went,  as  the  Eastern 
people  did  in  the  stories,  to  think  of  your  un- 
successful loves  and  dead  relations.  “ There  is 
a dreary  classicality  at  that  establishment  calcu- 
lated to  freeze  the  marrow.  Between  ourselves, 
even  one’s  best  friends  there  are  at  times  very 
aggravating.  One  tires  of  seeing  a man,  through 
any  number  of  acts,  remembering  everything  by 
patting  his  forehead  with  the  flat  of  his  hand, 
jerking  out  sentences  by  shaking  himself,  and 
piling  them  up  in  pyramids  over  his  head  with 
his  right  forefinger.  And  they  have  a generic 
small  comedy-piece,  where  you  see  two  sofas 
and  three  little  tables,  to  which  a man  enters 
with  his  hat  on,  to  talk  to  another  man — and  in 
respect  of  which  you  know  exactly  when  he  will 
get  up  from  one  sofa  to  sit  on  the  other,  and 
take  his  hat  off  one  table  to  put  it  upon  the  other 
— which  strikes  one  quite  as  ludicrously  as  a 

good  farce There  seems  to  be  a good 

piece  at  the  Vaudeville,  on  the  idea  of  the  Town 
and  Country  Mouse.  It  is  too  respectable  and 
inoffensive  for  me  to-night,  but  I hope  to  see  it 

before  I leave I have  a horrible  idea  of 

making  friends  with  Franconi,  and  sauntering 
when  I am  at  work  into  their  sawdust  green- 
room.” 

At  a theatre  of  a yet  heavier  school  than  the 
Fran(jais  he  had  a drearier  experience.  “On 
Wednesday  we  went  to  the  Odeon  to  see  a new 
piece,  in  four  acts  and  in  verse,  called  Michel 
Cervantes.  I suppose  such  an  infernal  dose  of 
ditch  water  never  was  concocted.  But  there 
were  certain  passages,  describing  the  suppression 
of  public  opinion  in  Madrid,  which  were  re- 
ceived with  a shout  of  savage  application  to 
France  that  made  one  stare  again.  And  once 
more,  here  again,  at  every  pause,  steady,  com- 
pact, regular  as  military  drums,  the  ^a  Ira!” 
On  another  niglit,  even  at  the  Porte  St.  Martin, 
drawn  there  doubtless  by  the  attraction  of  repul- 
sion, he  supped  full  with  the  horrors  of  classi- 
cality at  a performance  of  Orestes  versified  by 
Alexandre  Dumas.  “ Nothing  have  I ever  seen 
so  weighty  and  so  ridiculous.  If  I had  not 
already  learnt  to  tremble  at  the  sight  of  classic 
drapery  on  the  human  form,  I should  have 
plumbed  the  utmost  depths  of  terrified  boredom 
in  this  achievement.  The  chorus  is  not  pre- 
served otherwise  than  that  bits  of  it  are  taken 
out  for  characters  to  speak.  It  is  really  so  bad 
as  to  be  almost  good.  Some  of  the  Frenchified 
classical  anguish  struck  me  as  so  unspeakably 
ridiculous  that  it  puts  me  on  the  broad  grin  as  I 
write.” 

At  the  same  theatre,  in  the  early  spring,  he 
had  a somewhat  livelier  entertainment.  “ 1 was 


at  the  Porte  St.  Martin  last  night,  where  there 
is  a rather  good  melodrama  called  Sa?ig  Mele, 
in  which  one  of  the  characters  is  an  English 
Lord— Lord  William  Falkland — who  is  called 
throughout  the  piece  Milor  Williams  Fack  Lorn, 
and  is  a hundred  times  described  by  others  and 
described  by  himself  as  Williams.  He  is  ad- 
mirably played ; but  two  English  travelling  ladies 
are  beyond  expression  ridiculous,  and  there  is 
something  positively  vicious  in  their  utter  want 
of  truth.  One  ‘ set,’  where  the  action  of  a 
whole  act  is  supposed  to  take  place  in  the  great 
wooden  verandah  of  a Swiss  hotel  overhanging 
a mountain  ravine,  is  the  best  piece  of  stage 
carpentering  I have  seen  in  France.  Next  week 
we  are  to  have  at  the  Ambigu  Paradise  Lost, 
with  the  murder  of  Abel  and  the  Deluge.  The 
wildest  rumours  are  afloat  as  to  the  un-dressing 
of  our  first  parents.”  Anticipation  far  outdoes 
a reality  of  this  kind ; and  at  the  fever-pitch  to 
which  rumours  raised  it  here,  Dickens  might 
vainly  have  attempted  to  get  admission  on  the 
first  night,  if  Mr.  Webster,  the  English  manager 
and  comedian,  had  not  obtained  a ticket  for 
him.  He  went  with  Mr. Wilkie  Collins.  “We 
were  rung  in  (out  of  the  cafi^  below  the  Ambigu) 
at  8,  and  the  play  was  over  at  half-past  i ; the 
waits  between  the  acts  being  very  much  longer 
than  the  acts  themselves.  The  house  was 
crammed  to  excess  in  every  part,  and  the 
galleries  awful  with  Blouses,  who  again,  during 
the  whole  of  the  waits,  beat  with  the  regularity 
of  military  drums  the  revolutionary  tune  of 
famous  memory — Qa  Ira  ! The  play  is  a com- 
pound of  Paradise  Lost  and  Byron’s  Cain  ; and 
some  of  the  controversies  between  the  arch- 
angel and  the  devil,  when  the  celestial  power 
argues  with  the  infernal  in  conversational  French, 
as  ‘ Eh  bien  ! Satan,  crois-tu  done  que  notre 
Seigneur  t’aurait  expose  aux  tourments  que 
t’endures  a present,  sans  avoir  pre'vu,’  &c.  &c., 
are  very  ridiculous.  All  the  supernatural  per- 
sonages are  alarmingly  natural  (as  theatre  nature 
goes),  and  walk  about  in  the  stupidest  way, 
which  has  occasioned  Collins  and  myself  to  in- 
stitute a perquisition  whether  the  French  ever 
have  shown  any  kind  of  idea  of  the  supernatural ; 
and  to  decide  this  rather  in  the  negative.  The 
people  are  very  well  dressed,  and  Eve  very 
modestly.  All  Paris  and  the  provinces  had 
been  ransacked  for  a woman  who  had  brown 
hair  that  would  fall  to  the  calves  of  her  legs — 
and  she  was  found  at  last  at  the  Odeon.  There 
was  nothing  attractive  until  the  4th  act,  when 
there  was  a pretty  good  scene  of  the  children  of 
Cain  dancing  in,  and  desecrating  a temple, 
while  Abel  and  his  family  were  hammering  hard 


RESIDENCE  IN  PARIS.  307 


at  the  Ark,  outside,  in  all  the  pauses  of  the 
revel.  The  Deluge  in  the  fifth  act  was  up  to 
about  the  mark  of  a drowning  scene  at  the 
Adelphi ; but  it  had  one  new  feature.  When 
the  rain  ceased,  and  the  Ark  drove  in  on  the 
great  expanse  of  water,  then  lying  waveless  as 
the  mists  cleared  and  the  sun  broke  out,  num- 
bers of  bodies  drifted  up  and  down.  These 
were  all  real  men  and  boys,  each  separate,  on  a 
new  kind  of  horizontal  sloat.  They  looked 
horrible  and  real.  Altogether,  a really  dull 
business ; but  I dare  say  it  will  go  for  a long 
while.” 

A piece  of  honest  farce  is  a relief  from  these 
profane  absurdities.  “An  uncommonly  droll 
piece  with  an  original  comic  idea  in  it  has  been 
in  course  of  representation  here.  It  is  called 
Lcs  Cheveux  de  ma  Femme.  A man  who  is 
dotingly  fond  of  his  wife,  and  who  wishes  to 
know  rvhether  she  loved  anybody  else  before 
they  were  married,  cuts  off  a lock  of  her  hair  by 
stealth,  and  takes  it  to  a great  mesmeriser,  who 
submits  it  to  a clairvoyante  who  never  was 
AVTong.  It  is  discovered  that  the  owner  of  this 
hair  has  been  up  to  the  most  frightful  dissipa- 
tions, insomuch  that  the  clairvoyante  can’t  men- 
tion half  of  them.  The  distracted  husband  goes 
home  to  reproach  his  wife,  and  she  then  reveals 
that  she  wears  a wig,  and  takes  it  off.” 

The  last  piece  he  went  to  see  before  leaving 
Paris  was  a French  version  of  As  You  Like  It ; 
but  he  found  two  acts  of  it  to  be  more  than 
enough.  “ In  Comme  il  vous  Plaira  nobody  has 
anything  to  do  but  to  sit  down  as  often  as  pos- 
sible on  as  many  trunks  of  trees  as  possible. 
When  I had  seen  Jacques  seat  himself  on  17 
roots  of  trees,  and  25  grey  stones,  which  was  at 
the  end  of  the  second  act,  I came  away.”  Only 
one  more  sketch  taken  in  a theatre,  and  per- 
haps the  best,  I v/ill  give  from  these  letters.  It 
simply  tells  what  is  necessary  to  understand  a 
particular  “tag”  to  a play,  but  it  is  related  so 
prettily  that  the  thing  it  celebrates  could  not 
have  a nicer  effect  than  is  produced  by  this 
account  of  it.  The  play  in  question,  Memoires 
du  Diable,  and  another  piece  of  enchanting  in- 
terest, the  M'edecin  des  Enfa?its,  rvere  his  favourites 
among  all  he  saw  at  this  time.  “ As  I have  no 
news,  I may  as  well  tell  you  about  the  tag  that 
I thought  so  pretty  to  the  Memoires  du  Diable; 
in  which  piece,  by  the  way,  there  is  a most  ad- 
mirable part,  most  admirably  played,  in  which  a 
man  says  merely  ‘Yes’  or  ‘No’  all  through  the 
piece,  until  the  last  scene.  A certain  M.  Robin 
has  got  hold  of  the  papers  of  a deceased  lawyer, 
concerning  a certain  estate  which  has  been 
swindled  away  from  its  rightful  owner,  a Baron’s 


widow,  into  other  hands.  They  disclose  so  much 
roguery  that  he  binds  them  up  into  a volume 
lettered  ‘ Memoires  du  Diable.’  The  knowledge 
he  derives  from  these  papers  not  only  enables 
him  to  unmask  the  hypocrites  all  through  the 
piece  (in  an  excellent  manner),  but  induces  him 
to  propose  to  the  Baroness  that  if  he  restores  to 
her  her  estate  and  good  name — for  even  her 
marriage  to  the  deceased  Baron  is  denied — she 
shall  give  him  her  daughter  in  marriage.  The 
daughter  herself,  on  hearing  the  offer,  accepts 
it;  and  a part  of  the  plot  is,  her  going  to  a 
masked  ball,  to  which  he  goes  as  the  Devil,  to 
see  how  she  likes  him  (when  she  finds,  of  course, 
that  she  likes  him  very  much).  The  country 
people  about  the  Chateau  in  dispute,  suppose 
him  to  be  really  the  Devil,  because  of  his  strange 
knowledge,  and  his  strange  comings  and  goings ; 
and  he,  being  with  this  girl  in  one  of  its  old 
rooms,  in  the  beginning  of  the  3rd  act,  shows 
her  a little  coffer  on  the  table  with  a bell  in  it. 
‘ They  suppose,’  he  tells  her,  ‘ that  whenever 
this  bell  is  rung,  I appear  and  obey  the  sum- 
mons. Very  ignorant,  isn’t  it  ? But,  i( you  ever 
want  me  particularly — very  particularly — ring 
the  little  bell  and  try.’  The  plot  proceeds  to 
its  development.  The  wrong-doers  are  exposed; 
the  missing  document,  proving  the  marriage,  is 
found ; everything  is  finished ; they  are  all  on 
the  stage;  and  M.  Robin  hands  the  paper  to 
the  Baroness.  ‘You  are  reinstated  in  your  rights,. 
Madame;  you  are  happy;  I will  not  hold  you 
to  a compact  made  when  you  didn’t  know  me ; 
I release  you  and  your  fair  daughter ; the  plea- 
sure of  doing  what  I have  done,  is  my  sufficient 
reward ; I kiss  your  hand  and  take  my  leave. 
Farewell ! ’ He  backs  himself  courteously  out ; 
the  piece  seems  concluded,  everybody  wonders, 
the  girl  (little  Mdlle.  Luther)  stands  amazed; 
when  .she  suddenly  remembers  the  little  bell. 
In  the  prettiest  way  possible,  she  runs  to  the 
coffer  on  the  table,  takes  out  the  little  bell,  rings 
it,  and  he  comes  rushing  back  and  folds  her  to 
his  heart.  I never  saw  a prettier  thing  in  my 
life.  It  made  me  laugh  in  that  most  delightful 
of  ways,  with  the  tears  in  my  eyes ; so  that  I 
can  never  forget  it,  and  must  go  and  see  it 
again.” 

But  great  as  was  the  pleasure  thus  derived 
from  the  theatre,  he  Avas,  in  the  matter  of  social 
intercourse,  even  more  indebted  to  distinguished 
men  connected  with  it  by  authorship  or  acting. 
At  Scribe’s  he  was  entertained  frequently ; and 
“ very  handsome  and  pleasant  ” AA’as  his  account 
of  the  dinners,  as  of  all  the  belongings,  of  the 
prolific  dramatist — a charming  place  in  Paris,  a 
fine  estate  in  the  country,  capital  carriage,  hand- 


3o8  the  LITE  OF  CHARLES  DICICENS. 


some  pair  of  horses,  “ all  made,  as  he  says,  by 
his  pen.”  One  of  the  guests  the  first  evening 
was  Auber,  “ a stolid  little  elderly  man,  rather 
petulant  in  manner,”  who  told  Dickens  he  had 
once  lived  at  “Stock  Noonton”  (Stoke  New- 
ington) to  study  English,  but  had  forgotten  it 
all.  “ Louis  Philippe  had  invited  him  to  meet 
the  Queen  of  England,  and  when  L.  P.  pre- 
sented him,  the  Queen  said,  ‘ We  are  such  old 
acquaintances  through  M.  Auber’s  works,  that 
an  introduction  is  quite  unnecessary.  ’ ” They 
met  again  a few  nights  later,  with  the  author  of 
the  History  of  the  Girondins,  at  the  hospitable 
table  of  M.  Pichot,  to  whom  Lamartine  had 
expressed  a strong  desire  again  to  meet  Dickens 
as  “ un  des  grands  amis  de  son  imagination.” 
“ He  continues  to  be  precisely  as  we  formerly 
knew  him,  both  in  appearance  and  manner ; 
highly  prepossessing,  and  with  a sort  of  calm 
passion  about  him,  very  taking  indeed.  We 
talked  of  De  Foe  and  Richardson,  and  of  that 
wonderful  genius  for  the  minutest  details  in  a 
narrative  which  has  given  them  so  much  fame 
in  France.  1 found  him  frank  and  unaffected, 
and  full  of  curious  knowledge  of  the  French 
common  people.  He  informed  the  company  at 
dinner  that  he  had  rarely  met  a foreigner  who 
spoke  French  so  easily  as  your  inimitable  corre- 
spondent, whereat  your  correspondent  blushed 
modestly,  and  almost  immediately  afterwards 
so  nearly  choked  himself  with  the  bone  of  a 
fowl  (which  is  still  in  his  throat),  that  he  sat  in 
torture  for  ten  minutes  with  a strong  apprehen- 
sion that  he  was  going  to  make  the  good  Pichot 
famous  by  dying  like  the  little  Hunchback  at 
his  table.  Scribe  and  his  wife  were  of  the  party, 
but  had  to  go  away  at  the  ice-time  because 
it  was  the  first  representation  at  the  Ope'ra 
Comique  of  a new  opera  by  Auber  and  him- 
self, of  which  very  great  expectations  had  been 
formed.  It  was  very  curious  to  see  him — the 
author  of  400  pieces — getting  nervous  as  the 
time  approached,  and  pulling  out  his  watch 
every  minute.  At  last  he  dashed  out  as  if  he 
were  going  into  what  a friend  of  mine  calls  a 
plunge-bath.  Whereat  she  rose  and  followed. 
She  is  the  most  extraordinary  woman  I ever 
beheld ; for  her  eldest  son  must  be  thirty,  and 
she  has  the  figure  of  five-and-twenty,  and  is 
strikingly  handsome.  So  graceful,  too,  that  her 
manner  of  rising,  curtseying,  laughing,  and  going 
out  after  him,  was  pleasanter  than  the  jjleasantest 
thing  I have  ever  seen  done  on  the  stage.”  The 
opera  Dickens  himself  saw  a week  later,  and 
wrote  of  it  as  “ most  charming.  Delightlul 
music,  an  excellent  story,  immense  stage  tact, 
capital  scenic  arrangements,  and  the  most  de- 


lightful little  prima  donna  ever  seen  or  heard, 
in  the  person  of  Marie  Cabel.  It  is  called 
Manon  Lescant — from  the  old  romance — and  is 
charming  throughout.  She  sings  a laughing  song 
in  it  which  is  received  with  madness,  and  which 
is  the  only  real  laughing  song  that  ever  was 
written.  Auber  told  me  that  when  it  was  first 
rehearsed,  it  made  a great  effect  upon  the 
orchestra ; and  that  he  could  not  have  had  a 
better  compliment  upon  its  freshness  than  the 
musical  director  paid  him,  in  coming  and  clap- 
ping him  on  the  shoulder  with  ‘Bravo,  jeune 
homme  ! Cela  promet  bien  ! ” 

At  dinner  at  Regnier’s  he  met  M.  Legouvet, 
in  whose  tragedy  Rachel,  after  its  acceptance, 
had  refused  to  act  Medea ; a caprice  which  had 
led  not  only  to  her  condemnation  in  costs  of  so 
much  a night  until  she  did  act  it,  but  to  a quasi 
rivalry  against  her  by  Ristori,  who  was  now  on 
her  way  to  Paris  to  play  it  in  Italian.  To 
this  performance  Dickens  and  Macready  subse- 
quently went  together,  and  pronounced  it  to  be 
hopelessly  bad.  “ In  the  day  entertainments, 
and  little  melodrama  theatres,  of  Italy,  I have 
seen  the  same  thing  fifty  times,  only  not  at  one 
so  conventional  and  so  exaggerated.  The  papers 
have  all  been  in  fits  respecting  the  sublimity  of 
the  performance,  and  the  genuineness  of  the 
applause — particularly  of  the  bouquets ; which 
were  thrown  on  at  the  most  preposterous  times 
in  the  midst  of  agonizing  scenes,  so  that  the 
characters  had  to  pick  their  way  among  them, 
and  a certain  stout  gentleman  who  played  King 
Creon  was  obliged  to  keep  a wary  eye,  all  night, 
on  the  proscenium  boxes,  and  dodge  them  as 
they  came  down.  Now  Scribe,  who  dined  here 
next  day  (and  who  follows  on  the  Ristori  side, 
being  offended,  as  everybody  has  been,  by  the 
insolence  of  Rachel),  coukl  not  resist  the  tempta- 
tion of  telling  us,  that,  going  round  at  the  end 
of  the  first  act  to  oiler  his  congratulations,  he 
met  all  the  bouquets  coming  back  in  men’s 
arms  to  be  thrown  on  again  in  the  second  act. 

. ...  By  the  bye,  I see  a fine  actor  lost  in 
Scribe.  In  all  his  pieces  he  has  everything  done 
in  his  own  way  ; and  on  that  same  night  he  was 
showing  what  Rachel  did  not  do,  and  wouldn’t 
do,  in  the  last  scene  of  Adrienne  Lccouvreur, 
with  extraordinary  force  and  intensity.” 

.A.t  the  house  of  another  great  artist,  Madame 
Viardot,  the  sister  of  Malibran,  Dickens  dined 
to  meet  Georges  Sand,  that  lady  having  ap- 
pointed the  day  and  hour  for  the  interesting 
festival,  which  came  oil  duly  on  the  loth  of 
January.  “I  siqiposedt  to  be  impossible  to 
imagine  anybody  more  unlike  my  ])rcconcc|)- 
tions  than  the  illustrious  Sand.  Just  the  kind 


RESIDENCE  IN  PARIS. 


of  woman  in  appearance  whom  you  might  sup- 
pose to  be  the  Queen’s  monthly  nurse.  Chubby, 
matronly,  swarthy,  black-eyed.  Nothing  of  the 
blue-stocking  about  her,  except  a little  final  way 
of  settling  all  your  opinions  with  hers,  which 
I take  to  have  been  acquired  in  the  country, 
where  she  lives,  and  in  the  domination  of  a 
small  circle.  A singularly  ordinary  woman  in 
appearance  and  manner.  The  dinner  was  very 
good  and  remarkably  unpretending.  Ourselves, 
Madame  and  her  son,  the  Scheffers,  the  Sar- 
torises,  and  some  Lady  somebody  (from  the 
Crimea  last)  who  wore  a species  of  paletot,  and 
smoked.  The  Viardots  have  a house  away  in 
the  new  part  of  Paris,  which  looks  exactly  as  if 
they  had  moved  into  it  last  week  and  were 
going  away  next.  Notwithstanding  which,  they 
have  lived  in  it  eight  years.  The  opera  the 
very  last  thing  on  earth  you  would  associate 
with  the  family.  Piano  not  even  opened.  Her 
husband  is  an  extremely  good  fellow,  and  she  is 
as  natural  as  it  is  possible  to  be.” 

Dickens  was  hardly  the  man  to  take  fair 
measure  of  Madame  Dudevant  in  meeting  her 
thus.  He  was  not  familiar  with  her  writings, 
and  had  no  very  special  liking  for  such  of  them 
as  he  knew.  But  no  disappointment,  nothing 
but  amazement,  awaited  him  at  a dinner  that 
followed  soon  after.  Emile  de  Girardin  gave  a 
banquet  in  his  honour.  His  description  of  it, 
which  he  declares  to  be  strictly  prosaic,  sounds 
a little  Oriental,  but  not  inappropriately  so. 
“ No  man  unacquainted  with  my  determination 
never  to  embellish  or  fancify  such  accounts, 
could  believe  in  the  description  I shall  let  off 
when  we  meet,  of  dining  at  Emile  Girardin’s — 
of  the  three  gorgeous  drawing  rooms  with  ten 
thousand  wax  candles  in  golden  sconces,  ter- 
minating in  a dining  room  of  unprecedented 
magnificence  with  two  enormous  transparent 
plate-glass  doors  in  it,  looking  (across  an  ante- 
chamber full  of  clean  plates)  straight  into  the 
kitchen,  with  the  cooks  in  their  white  paper 
caps  dishing  the  dinner.  From  his  seat  in  the 
midst  of  the  table,  the  host  (like  a Giant  in  a 
Fairy  story)  beholds  the  kitchen,  and  the  snow- 
white  tables,  and  the  profound  order  and  silence 
there  prevailing.  Forth  from  the  plate-glass 
door  issues  the  Banquet — the  most  wonderful 
feast  ever  tasted  by  mortal : at  the  present  price 
of  Truffles,  that  article  alone  costing  (for  eight 
people)  at  least  five  pounds.  On  the  table  are 
ground  glass  jugs  of  peculiar  construction,  laden 
with  the  finest  growth  of  Champagne  and  the 
coolest  ice.  With  the  third  course  is  issued 
Port  Wine  (previously  unheard  of  in  a good 
state  on  this  continent),  which  would  fetch  two 
Like  of  Charles  Dickem.s.  2i. 


309 


guineas  a bottle  at  any  sale.  The  dinner  done. 
Oriental  flowers  in  vases  of  golden  cobweb  are 
placed  upon  the  board.  With  the  ice  is  issued 
Brandy,  buried  for  100  years.  To  that  suc- 
ceeds Coffee,  brought  by  the  brother  of  one  of 
the  convives  from  the  remotest  East,  in  ex- 
change for  an  equal  quantity  of  Californian  gold 
dust.  The  company  being  returned  to  the 
drawing-room — tables  roll  in  by  unseen  agency, 
laden  with  Cigarettes  from  the  Hareem  of  the 
Sultan,  and  with  cool  drinks  in  which  the  flavour 
of  the  Lemon  arrived  yesterday  from  Algeria, 
struggles  voluptuously  with  the  delicate  Orange 
arrived  this  morning  from  Lisbon.  That  period 
past,  and  the  guests  reposing  on  Divans  worked 
with  many-coloured  blossoms,  big  table  rolls 
in,  heavy  with  massive  furniture  of  silver,  and 
breathing  incense  in  the  form  of  a little  present 
of  Tea  direct  from  China — table  and  all,  I be- 
lieve ; but  cannot  swear  to  it,  and  am  resolved 
to  be  prosaic.  All  this  time  the  host  perpetually 
repeats  ‘ Ce  petit  diner-ci  n’est  que  pour  faire  la 
ccfnnaissance  de  Monsieur  Dickens;  il  ne  compte 
pas ; ce  n’est  rien.’  And  even  now  I have  for- 
gotten to  set  down  half  of  it — in  particular  the 
item  of  a far  larger  plum  pudding  than  ever  was 
seen  in  England  at  Christmas  time,  served  with 
a celestial  sauce  in  colour  like  the  orange  blos- 
som, and  in  substance  like  the  blossom  powdered 
and  bathed  in  dew,  and  called  in  the  carte  (carte 
in  a gold  frame  like  a little  fish-slice  to  be  handed 
about)  ‘ Hommage  k I’illustre  ecrivain  d’Angle- 
terre.’  That  illustrious  man  staggered  out  at  the 
last  drawing-room  door,  speechless  with  wonder, 
finally ; and  even  at  that  moment  his  host,  hold- 
ing to  his  lips  a chalice  set  with  precious  stones 
and  containing  nectar  distilled  from  the  air  that 
blew  over  the  fields  of  beans  in  bloom  for  fifteen 
summers,  remarked  ‘ Le  diner  que  nous  avons 
eu,  mon  cher,  n’est  rien — il  ne  compte  pas — il  a 
ete  tout-k-fait  en  famille — il  faut  diner  (en  verite, 
diner)  bientot.  Au  plaisir ! Au  revoir ! Au 
diner ! ” 

The  second  dinner  came,  wonderful  as  the 
first;  among  the  company  were  Regnier,  Jules 
Sandeau,  and  the  new  Director  of  the  Frangais ; 
and  his  host  again  played  Lucullus  in  the  same 
style,  with  success  even  more  consummate.  The 
only  absolutely  new  incident  however  was  that 
“After  dinner  he  asked  me  if  I would  come 
into  another  room  and  smoke  a cigar  ? and  on 
my  saying  Yes,  coolly  opened  a drawer,  con- 
taining about  5000  inestimable  cigars  in  pro- 
digious bundles — ^just  as  the  Captain  of  the 
Robbers  in  AH  Baba  might  have  gone  to  a 
corner  of  the  cave  for  bales  of  brocade.  A little 
man  dined  who  was  blacking  shoes  8 years  ago, 

429 


310  the  life  of  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


and  is  now  enormously  rich — the  richest  man  in 
Paris — having  ascended  with  rapidity  up  the 
usual  ladder  of  the  Bourse.  By  merely  observ- 
ing that  perhaps  he  might  come  down  again,  I 
clouded  so  many  faces  as  to  render  it  very  clear 
to  me  that  everybody  present  was  at  the  same 
game  for  some  stake  or  other  ! ” He  returned 
to  that  subject  in  a letter  a few  days  later.  “ If 
you  were  to  see  the  steps  of  the  Bourse  at  about 
4 in  the  afternoon,  and  the  crowd  of  blouses 
and  patches  among  the  speculators  there  assem- 
bled, all  howling  and  haggard  with  speculation, 
you  would  stand  aghast  at  the  consideration  of 
what  must  be  going  on.  Concierges  and  people 
like  that  perpetually  blow  their  brains  out,  or 
fly  into  the  Seine,  ‘k  cause  des  pertes  sur  la 
Bourse.’  I hardly  ever  take  up  a French  paper 
without  lighting  on  such  a paragraph.  On  the 
other  hand,  thoroughbred  horses  without  end, 
and  red  velvet  carnages  with  white  kid  harness 
on  jet  black  horses,  go  by  here  all  day  long  ■,  and 
the  pedestrians  who  turn  to  look  at  them,  laugh, 
and  say,  ‘ C’est  la  Bourse  ! ’ Such  crashes  must 
be  staved  off  every  week  as  have  not  been  seen 
since  Law’s  time.” 

Another  picture  connects  itself  with  this,  and 
throws  light  on  the  speculation  thus  raging. 
The  French  loans  connected  with  the  war,  so 
much  puffed  and  praised  in  England  at  the  time 
for  the  supposed  spirit  in  which  they  were  taken 
up,  had  in  fact  only  ministered  to  the  commonest 
and  lowest  gambling  ; and  the  war  had  never  in 
the  least  been  popular.  “ Emile  Girardin,” 
wrote  Dickens  on  the  23rd  of  March,  “ was  here 
yesterday,  and  he  says  that  Peace  is  to  be  for- 
mally announced  at  Paris  to-morrow  amid 
general  apathy.”  But  the  French  are  never 
wholly  apathetic  to  their  own  exploits  ; and  a 
display  with  a touch  of  excitement  in  it  had 
been  witnessed  a couple  of  months  before  on 
the  entry  of  the  troops  from  the  Crimea,  when 
the  Zouaves,  as  they  marched  past,  pleased 
Dickens  most.  “ A remarkable  body  of  men,” 
he  wrote,  “ wild,  dangerous,  and  picturesque. 
Close-cropped  head,  red  skull  cap,  Greek  jacket, 
full  red  petticoat,  trowsers  trimmed  with  yellow, 
and  high  white  gaiters— the  most  sensible  things 
for  the  purpose  I know,  and  coming  into  use  in 
the  line.  A man  with  such  things  on  his  legs  is 
always  free  there,  and  ready  for  a muddy  march  ; 
and  might  flouncler  through  roads  two  feet  deep 
in  mud,  and,  simply  by  changing  his  gaiters  (lie 
has  another  pair  in  his  liaversack),  be  clean  and 
comfortable  and  wholesome  again,  directly. 
Plenty  of  beard  and  moustache,  and  the  musket 
carried  reversewisc  with  the  stock  over  the 
shoulder,  make  up  the  sun-burnt  Zouave.  He 


strides  like  Bobadil,  smoking  as  he  goes ; and 
when  he  laughs  (they  were  under  my  window 
for  half-an-hour  or  so),  plunges  backward  in  the 
wildest  way,  as  if  he  were  going  to  throw  a sum- 
mersault. They  have  a black  dog  belonging  to 
the  regiment,  and  when  they  now  marched  along 
with  their  medals,  this  dog  marched  after  the 
one  non-commissioned  officer  he  invariably  fol- 
lows with  a profound  conviction  that  he  was 
decorated.  I couldn’t  see  whether  he  had  a 
medal,  his  hair  being  long ; but  he  was  perfectly 
up  to  what  had  befallen  his  regiment;  and  I 
never  saw  anything  so  capital  as  his  way  of 
regarding  the  public.  Whatever  the  regiment 
does,  he  is  always  in  his  place ; and  it  was  im- 
possible to  mistake  the  air  of  modest  triumph 
which  was  now  upon  him.  A small  dog  cor- 
poreally, but  of  great  mind.”  On  that  night 
there  was  an  illumination  in  honour  of  the  army, 
when  the  “ whole  of  Paris,  bye  streets  and  lanes 
and  all  sorts  of  out  of  the  way  places,  was  most 
brilliantly  illuminated.  It  looked  in  the  dark 
like  Venice  and  Genoa  rolled  into  one,  and  split 
up  through  the  middle  by  the  Corso  at  Rome 
in  the  carnival  time.  The  French  people  cer- 
tainly do  know  how  to  humour  their  own  coun- 
trymen, in  a most  marvellous  way.”  It  was  the 
festival  time  of  the  New  Year,  and  Dickens  was 
fairly  lost  in  a mystery  of  amazement  at  where 
the  money  could  come  from  that  everybody  was 
spending  on  the  etrennes  they  were  giving  to 
everybody  else.  All  the  famous  shops  on  the 
Boulevards  had  been  blockaded  for  more  than 
a week.  “ There  is  now  a line  of  wooden  stalls, 
three  miles  long,  on  each  side  of  that  immense 
thoroughfare  ; and  wherever  a retiring  house  or 
two  admits  of  a double  line,  there  it  is.  All 
sorts  of  objects  from  shoes  and  sabots,  through 
porcelain  and  crystal,  up  to  live  fowls  and 
rabbits  which  are  played  for  at  a sort  of  dwarf 
skittles  (to  their  immense  disturbance,  as  the 
ball  rolls  under  them  and  shakes  them  off  then- 
shelves  and  perches  whenever  it  is  delivered  by 
a vigorous  hand),  are  on  sale  in  this  great  Fair. 
And  what  you  may  get  in  the  way  of  ornament 
for  twopence,  is  astounding.”  Unhappily  there 
came  dark  and  rainy  weather,  and  one  of  the 
improvements  of  the  Empire  ended,  as  so  many 
others  did,  in  slush  and  misery. 

Some  sketches  connected  with  the  Art  Expo- 
sition in  this  winter  of  1855,  and  with  the  fulfil- 
ment of  Ary  Scheffer’s  design  to  jiaint  the 
portrait  of  Dickens,  may  close  these  Paris  pic- 
tures. He  did  not  think  that  English  art  showed 
to  advantage  beside  the  French.  It  seemed  to 
him  small,  shrunken,  insignificant,  “niggling.” 
He  thought  the  general  absence  of  ideas  horribly 


' • — — — t 

RESIDENCE  IN  PARIS.  31 1 


apparent ; “ and  even  when  one  comes  to  Mul- 
ready,  and  sees  two  old  men  talking  over  a miich- 
too-prominent  table-cloth,  and  reads  the  French 
explanation  of  their  proceedings,  ‘ La  discussion 
sur  les  principes  de  Docteur  Whiston,’  one  is 
dissatisfied.  Somehow  or  other  they  don’t  tell. 
Even  Leslie’s  Sancho  wants  go,  and  Stanny  is 
too  much  like  a set-scene.  It  is  of  no  use  dis- 
guising the  fact  that  what  we  know  to  be  want- 
ing in  the  men  is  wanting  in  their  works — cha- 
racter, fire,  purpose,  and  the  power  of  using  the 
vehicle  and  the  model  as  mere  means  to  an  end. 
There  is  a horrid  respectability  about  most  of 
the  best  of  them — a little,  finite,  systematic 
routine  in  them,  strangely  expressive  to  me  of 
the  state  of  England  itself.  As  a mere  fact. 
Frith,  Ward,  and  Egg,  come  out  the  best  in  such 
pictures  as  are  here,  and  attract  to  the  greatest 
extent.  The  first,  in  the  picture  from  the  Good- 
natured  Man ; the  second,  in  the  Royal  Family 
in  the  Temple ; the  third,  in  Peter  the  Great 
first  seeing  Catherine — which  I always  thought 
a good  picture,  and  in  which  foreigners  evidently 
descry  a sudden  dramatic  touch  that  pleases 
them.  There  are  no  end  of  bad  pictures  among 
the  French,  but.  Lord  ! the  goodness  also  ! — the 
fearlessness  of  them ; the  bold  drawing ; the 
dashing  conception ; the  passion  and  action  in 
them  ! The  Belgian  department  is  full  of  merit. 
It  has  the  best  landscape  in  it,  the  best  portrait, 
•and  the  best  scene  of  homely  life,  to  be  found 
in  the  building.  Don’t  think  it  a part  of  my 
despondency  about  public  affairs,  and  my  fear 
that  our  national  glory  is  on  the  decline,  when  I 
say  that  mere  form  and  conventionalities  usurp, 
in  English  art,  as  in  English  government  and 
social  relations,  the  place  of  living  force  and 
truth.  I tried  to  resist  the  impression  yesterday, 
and  went  to  the  English  gallery  first,  and  praised 
and  admired  with  great  diligence ; but  it  was  of 
no  use.  I could  not  make  anything  better  of  it 
than  what  I tell  you.  Of  course  this  is  between 
ourselves.  Friendship  is  better  than  criticism, 
and  I shall  steadily  hold  my  tongue.  Discus- 
sion is  worse  than  useless  when  you  cannot 
agree  about  what  you  are  going  to  discuss.” 
French  nature  is  all  wrong,  said  the  English 
artists  whom  Dickens  talked  to  ; but  surely  not 
because  it  is  French,  was  his  reply.  The  English 
point  of  view  is  not  the  only  one  to  take  men 
and  women  from.  The  French  pictures  are 
“ theatrical,”  was  the  rejoinder.  But  the  French 
themselves  are  a demonstrative  and  gesticulating 
people,  was  Dickens’s  retort;  and  what  thus  is 
rendered  by  their  artists  is  the  truth  through  an 
immense  part  of  the  world.  “ I never  saw  any- 
thing so  strange.  They  seem  to  me  to  have  got 


a fixed  idea  that  there  is  no  natural  manner  but 
the  English  manner  (in  itself  so  exceptional  that 
it  is  a thing  apart,  in  all  countries) ; and  that 
unless  a Frenchman — represented  as  going  to 
the  guillotine  for  example — is  as  calm  as  Clap- 
ham,  or  as  respectable  as  Richmond-hill,  he 
cannot  be  right.” 

To  the  sittings  at  Ary  Scheffer’s  some  troubles 
as  well  as  many  pleasures  were  incident,  and  both 
had  mention  in  his  letters.  “You  may  faintly  ima- 
gine what  I have  suffered  from  sitting  to  Scheffer 
every  day  since  I came  back.  He  is  a most 
noble  fellow,  and  I have  the  greatest  pleasure  in 
his  society,  and  have  made  all  sorts  of  acquaint- 
ances at  his  house ; but  I can  scarcely  express 
how  uneasy  and  unsettled  it  makes  me  to  have 
to  sit,  sit,  sit,  with  ZzV/A  Dorrit  on  my  mind,  and 
the  Christmas  business  too — though  that  is  now 
happily  dismissed.  On  Monday  afternoon,  a7id 
all  day  on  Wednesday,  I am  going  to  sit  again. 
And  the  crowning  feature  is,  that  I do  not  dis- 
cern the  slightest  resemblance,  either  in  his  por- 
trait or  his  brother’s  ! They  both  peg  away  at 
me  at  the  same  time.”  The  sittings  were  varied 
by  a special  entertainment,  when  Scheffer  re- 
ceived some  sixty  people  in  his  “ long  atelier  ” 
— “ including  a lot  of  French  who  say  (but  I 
don’t  believe  it)  that  they  know  English  ” — to 
whom  Dickens,  by  special  entreaty,  read  his 
Crickd  on  the  Hearth. 

That  was  at  the  close  of  November.  January 
came,  and  the  end  of  the  sittings  was  supposed 
to  be  at  hand.  “The  nightmare  portrait  is 
nearly  done ; and  Scheffer  promises  that  an  in- 
terminable sitting  next  Saturday,  beginning  at 
10  o’clock  in  the  morning,  shall  finish  it.  It  is 
a fine  spirited  head,  painted  at  his  very  best, 
and  with  a very  easy  and  natural  appearance  in 
it.  But  it  does  not  look  to  me  at  all  like,  nor 
does  it  strike  me  that  if  I saw  it  in  a gallery  I 
should  suppose  myself  to  be  the  original.  It  is 
always  possible  that  I don’t  know  my  own  face. 
It  is  going  to  be  engraved  here,  in  two  sizes  and 
ways — the  mere  head  and  the  whole  thing.”  A 
fortnight  later  the  interminable  sitting  came. 
“ Imagine  me  if  you  please  with  No.  5 on  my 
head  and  hands,  sitting  to  Scheffer  yesterday 
four  hours  ! At  this  stage  of  a story,  no  one  can 
conceive  how  it  distresses  m.e.”  Still  this  was 
not  the  last.  March  had  come  before  the  por- 
trait was  done.  “Scheffer  finished  yesterday; 
and  Collins,  who  has  a good  eye  for  pictures, 
says  that  there  is  no  man  living  who  could  do 
the  painting  about  the  eyes.  As  a work  of  art  I 
see  in  it  spirit  combined  with  perfect  ease,  and 
yet  I don’t  see  myself.  So  I come  to  the  con- 
clusion that  I never  do  see  myself.  I shall  be 


312 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKEHS. 


very  curious  to  know  the  effect  of  it  upon  you.” 
March  had  then  begun  ; and  at  its  close  Dickens, 
who  had  meanwhile  been  in  England,  thus  wrote : 
“ I have  not  seen  Scheffer  since  I came  back, 
but  he  told-  Catherine  a few  days  ago  that  he 
was  not  satisfied  with  the  likeness  after  all,  and 


thought  he  must  do  more  to  it.  ]\Iy  own  im- 
pression of  it,  you  remember?”  In  these  few 
words  he  anticipated  the  impression  made  upon 
myself.  I was  not  satisfied  with  it.  The  picture 
had  much  merit,  but  not  as  a portrait.  From 
its  very  resemblance  in  the  eyes  and  mouth  one 


C’EST  VRAI  DONC,”  SAYS  THE  DUKE,  “ QUE  MADAME  I,A  DUCHESSE  N’EST  I'l.US  ? ” — “ C’EST  TROP  VRAI, 
MONSEIGNEUR.”  — “ TANT  MIEUX,”  SAYS  THE  DUKE,  AND  WALKS  OFF  DELIBERATELY,  TO  THE  GREAT 
SATISFACTION  OF  THE  ASSEMBLAGE. 


derived  the  sense  of  a general  unlikeness.  But 
the  work  of  the  artist’s  brother,  Henri  Scheffer, 
painted  from  the  same  sittings,  was  in  all  ways 
greatly  inferior. 

Before  Dickens  left  Paris  in  May  he  had  com- 


pleted the  arrangements  for  a published  transla- 
tion of  all  his  books,  and  had  sent  over  two 
descriptions  that  the  reader  most  anxious  to 
follow  him  to  a new  scene  would  perhaps  be 
sorry  to  lose.  A Duchess  was  murdered  in  the 


RESIDENCE  IN  EAR  IS.  313 

Cliamps  Elysees.  “ The  murder  over  the  way 
{the  third  or  fourth  event  of  that  nature  in  the 
Champs  Elysdes  since  we  liave  been  here)  seems 
to  disclose  the  strangest  state  of  things.  The 
Duchess  who  is  murdered  lived  alone  in  a great 
house  which  was  always  shut  up,  and  passed  her 
time  entirely  in  the  dark.  In  a little  lodge  out- 
side lived  a coachman  (the  murderer),  and  there 
had  been  a long  succession  of  coachmen  who 
had  been  unable  to  stay  there,  and  upon  whom, 
whenever  they  asked  for  their  wages,  she  plunged 
out  with  an  immense  knife,  by  way  of  an  im- 
mediate settlement.  The  coachman  never  had 
anything  to  do,  for  the  coach  hadn’t  been  driven 
out  for  years  ; neither  would  she  ever  allow  the 
horses  to  be  taken  out  for  exercise.  Between 
the  lodge  and  the  house,  is  a miserable  bit  of 
garden,  all  overgrown  with  long  rank  grass, 
weeds,  and  nettles;  and  in  this,  the  horses  used 
to  be  taken  out  to  swim — in  a dead  green 
vegetable  sea,  up  to  their  haunches.  On  the 
day  of  the  murder  there  was  a great  crowd,  of 
course;  and  in  the  midst  of  it  up  comes  the 
Duke  her  husband  (from  whom  she  was  sepa- 
rated), and  rings  at  the  gate.  The  police  open 
the  grate.  ‘ C’est  vrai  done,’  says  the  Duke,  ‘ que 
Madame  la  Duchesse  n’est  plus  ?’ — ‘ C’est  trop 
vrai.  Monseigneur.’  — ‘ Tant  mieux,’  says  the 
Duke,  and  walks  off  deliberately,  to  the  great 
satisfaction  of  the  assemblage.” 

The  second  description  relates  an  occurrence 
in  England  of  only  three  years  previous  date, 
belonging  to  that  wildly  improbable  class  of 
realities  which  Dickens  always  held,  with  Field- 
ing, to  be  (properly)  closed  to  fiction.  Only, 
he  would  add,  critics  should  not  be  so  eager  to 
assume  that  what  had  never  happened  to  them- 
selves could  not,  by  any  human  possibility,  ever 
be  supposed  to  have  happened  to  anybody  else. 
“ B.  was  witii  me  the  other  day,  and,  among 
other  things  that  he  told  me,  described  an  ex- 
traordinary adventure  in  his  life,  at  a place  not 
a thousand  miles  from  my  ‘ property  ’ at  Gads- 
hill,  three  years  ago.  He  lived  at  the  tavern 
and  was  sketching  one  day  when  an  open  car- 
riage came  by  with  a gentleman  and  lady  in  it. 
He  was  sitting  in  the  same  place  working  at  the 
same  sketch,  next  day,  when  it  came  by  again. 
So,  another  day,  when  the  gentleman  got  out 
and  introduced  himself.  Fond  of  art ; lived  at 
the  great  house  yonder,  which  perhaps  he  knew ; 
was  an  Oxford  man  and  a Devonshire  squire, 
but  not  resident  on  his  estate,  for  domestic 
reasons ; would  be  glad  to  see  him  to  dinner 
to-morrow.  He  went,  and  found  among  other 
things  a very  fine  library.  ‘ At  your  disposition,’ 
said  the  Squire,  to  whom  he  had  now  described 

liimself  and  his  pursuits.  ‘ Use  it  for  your  writ- 
ing and  drawing.  Nobody  else  uses  it.’  He 
stayed  in  the  house  s/x  months.  The  lady  was 
a mistress,  aged  five-and-twenty,  and  very  beau- 
tiful, drinking  her  life  away.  The  Squire  was 
drunken,  and  utterly  depraved  and  wicked;  but 
an  excellent  scholar,  an  admirable  linguist,  and 
a great  theologian.  Two  other  mad  visitors 
stayed  the  six  months.  One,  a man  well  known 
in  Paris  here,  who  goes  about  the  world  with  a 
crimson  silk  stocking  in  his  breast  pocket,  con- 
taining a tooth-brush  and  an  immense  quantity 
of  ready  money.  The  other,  a college  chum  of 
the  Squire’s,  now  ruined  ; with  an  insatiate  thirst 
for  drink  ; who  constantly  got  up  in  the  middle 
of  the  night,  crept  down  to  the  dining-room,  and 

emptied  all  the  decanters B.  stayed  on 

in  the  place,  under  a sort  of  devilish  fascination 

to  discover  what  might  come  of  it Tea 

or  coffee  never  seen  in  the  house,  and  very  sel- 
dom water.  Beer,  champagne,  and  brandy,  were 
the  three  drinkables.  Breakfast : leg  of  mutton, 
champagne,  beer,  and  brandy.  Lunch  : shoulder 
of  mutton,  champagne,  beer,  and  brandy.  Din- 
ner : every  conceivable  dish  (Squire’s  income, 
;^7,ooo  a-year),  champagne,  beer,  and  brandy. 
The  Squire  had  married  a woman  of  the  town 
from  whom  he  was  now  separated,  but  by  whom 
he  had  a daughter.  The  mother,  to  spite  the 
father,  had  bred  the  daughter  in  every  conceiv- 
able vice.  Daughter,  then  13,  came  from  school 
once  a month.  Intensely  coarse  in  talk,  and 
always  drunk.  As  they  drove  about  the  country 
in  two  open  carriages,  the  drunken  mistress 
would  be  perpetually  tumbling  out  of  one,  and 
the  drunken  daughter  perpetually  tumbling  out 
of  the  other.  At  last  the  drunken  mistress  drank 
her  stomach  away,  and  began  to  die  on  the  sofa. 
Got  worse  and  worse,  and  was  always  raving 
about  Somebody’s  where  she  had  once  been  a 
lodger,  and  perpetually  shrieking  that  she  would 
cut  somebody  else’s  heart  out.  At  last  she  died 
on  the  sofa,  and,  after  the  funeral,  the  party 
broke  up.  A few  months  ago,  B.  met  the  man 
with  the  crimson  silk  stocking  at  Brighton,  who 
told  him  that  the  Squire  was  dead  ‘ of  a broken 
heart;’  that  the  chum  was  dead  of  delirium 
tremens ; and  that  the  daughter  was  heiress  to 
the  fortune.  He  told  me  all  this,  which  I fully 
believe  to  be  true,  without  any  embellishment — ■ 
just  in  the  off-hand  way  in  which  I have  told  it 
to  you.” 

Dickens  left  Paris  at  the  end  of  April,  and, 
after  the  summer  in  Boulogne  which  has  been 
described,  passed  the  winter  in  London,  giving 
to  his  theatrical  enterprise  nearly  all  the  time 
that  Little  Dorrit  did  not  claim  from  him.  His 

314  the  life  of  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


book  was  finished  in  the  following  spring;  was  | trical  enterprise  to  be  at  the  same  time  related, 
inscribed  to  Clarkson  Stanfield ; and  now  claims  ^ with  what  it  led  to,  will  be  found  to  open  a new 
to  have  something  said  about  it.  The  thea-  ' phase  in  the  life  of  Dickens. 


BOOK  EIGHTH.— PUBLIC  READER. 


1856—1867.  JEt.  44—55- 


I.  Little  Dorrit,  and  a Lazy  Tour. 

II.  What  Happened  at  this  Time. 

III.  G.adshill  Place. 

IV.  First  Paid  Readjngs. 


V.  All  the  Year  Round  and  Uncom 
mercial  Traveller. 

VI.  .Second  Series  of  Readings. 

VII.  Third  Series  of  Readings. 


I. 


LITTLE  DORRIT,  AND  A LAZY  TOUR. 


1855—1857. 

ETWEEN  Hard  Times  and  Little 
Dorrit,  Dickens’s  principal  literary- 
work  had  been  the  contribution  to 
Household  Words  of  two  tales  for 
Christmas  (1854  and  1855)  which 
his  readings  afterwards  made  widely 
popular,  the  Story  of  Richard  Double- 
dick,’*'  and  Boots  at  the  Holly-Tree  Inn. 
In  the  latter  was  related,  with  a charming  natu- 
ralness and  spirit,  the  elopement,  to  get  married 
at  Gretna  Green,  of  two  little  children  of  the 
mature  respective  ages  of  eight  and  seven.  At 
Christmas  1855  came  out  the  first  number  of 
Little  Dorrit,  and  in  April  1857  the  last. 

The  book  took  its  orisrin  from  the  notion  he 


had  of  a leading  man  for  a story  who  should 
bring  about  all  the  mischief  in  it,  lay  it  all  on 
Providence,  and  say  at  every  fresh  calamity, 
“Well,  it’s  a mercy,  however,  nobody  was  to 
blame  you  know  ! ” The  title  first  chosen,  out 
of  many  suggested,  was  Nlobody's  Fault;  and 


* The  framework  for  this  sketch  was  a graphic  de- 
scription, also  done  by  Dickens,  of  the  celebrated  Charity 
at  Rochester  founded  in  the  sixteenth  century  by  Richard 
Watts,  “ for  six  poor  travellers,  who,  not  being  Rogues 
or  Proetors,  may  receive  gratis  for  one  night,  lodging, 
entertainment,  and  fourpenee  each.”  A quaint  monu- 
ment to  Watts  is  the  most  prominent  objeet  on  the  wall 
of  the  south-west  transept  of  the  eathedral,  and  under- 
neath it  is  now  plaeed  a brass  thus  inscribed  : “ Charles 
Dickens.  Born  at  Portsmouth,  seventh  of  February 
i8i2.  Died  at  Gadshill  Plaee  by  Rochester,  ninth  of 
June  1870.  Buried  in  Westminster  Abbey.  To  con- 
ncet  his  memory  with  the  seenes  in  which  his  earliest 
and  his  latest  years  were  passed,  and  with  the  associa- 
tions of  Rochester  Catliedral  and  its  neighbourhood 
whieh  extended  over  all  Iris  life,  this  Tablet,  with  the 
sanction  of  the  Dean  ami  Chapter,  is  placed  by  his 
Fixecutors.” 


; four  numbers  had  been  written,  of  which  the 
first  was  on  the  eve  of  appearing,  before  this 
was  changed.  When  about  to  fall  to  work  he 
excused  himself  from  an  engagement  he  should 
have  kept  because  “ the  story  is  breaking  out  all 
round  me,  and  I am  going  off  down  the  railroad 
j to  humour  it.”  The  humouring  was  a little 
difficult,  however ; and  such  indications  of  a 
droop  in  his  invention  as  presented  themselves 
in  portions  of  Bleak  House,  were  noticeable 
again.  “As  to  the  story  I am  in  the  second 
number,  and  last  night  and  this  morning  had 
half  a mind  to  begin  again,  and  work  in  what  I 
have  done,  afterwards”  (Aug.  19th).  It  had 
occurred  to  him,  that,  by  making  the  fellow- 
travellers  at  once  known  to  each  other,  as  the 
opening  of  the  story  stands,  he  had  missed  an 
effect.  “It  struck  me  that  it  would  be  a new 
thing  to  show  people  coming  together,  in  a 
chance  way,  as  fellow-travellers,  and  being  in 
the  same  place,  ignorant  of  one  another,  as  hap- 
pens in  life ; and  to  connect  them  afterwards, . 
and  to  make  the  waiting  for  that  connection  a 
part  of  the  interest.”  The  change  was  not 
made ; but  the  mention  of  it  was  one  of  several 
intimations  to  me  of  the  altered  conditions 
under  which  he  was  writing,  and  that  the  old,, 
unstinted,  irrepressible  flow  of  fancy  had  re- 
ceived temporary  check.  In  this  view  I have 
found  it  very  interesting  to  compare  the  original 
notes,  which  as  usual  he  prepared  for  each  num- 
ber of  the  tale,  and  which  with  the  rest  are  in  my 
possession,  with  those  of  Chuzzlatnt  or  Copper- 
field ; observing  in  the  former  the  labour  and 
pains,  and  in  the  latter  the  lightness  and  con- 
fidence of  handling.’*’  “ I am  just  now  getting 
to  work  on  number  three  : sometimes  enthusi- 

* So  curious  a contrast,  taking  Copperfield  for  the 
purpose,  I have  thought  worth  giving  in  fac-siinile  ; anil 
can  assure  the  reader  tliat  the  exanqilcs  taken  express 
very  lairly  the  general  eharacter  of  the  Notes  to  tl'.e  two 
books  respectively. 


LITTLE  DORR  12]  AND  A LAZY  TOUR. 


315 


astic,  more  often  dull  enough.  There  is  an 
enormous  outlay  in  the  Father  of  the  Marshal- 
sea  chapter,  in  the  way  of  getting  a great  lot  of 
matter  into  a small  space.  I am  not  quite  re- 
solved, but  1 have  a great  idea  of  overwhelming 


that  family  with  wealth.  Their  condition  would 
be  very  curious.  I can  make  Dorrit  very  strong 
in  the  story,  I hope  ” (Sept.  i6th).  The  Marshal- 
sea  part  of  the'  tale  undoubtedly  was  excellent, 
and  there  was  masterly  treatment  of  character 


in  the  contrasts  of  the  brothers  Dorrit ; but  of 
the  family  generally  it  may  be  said  that  its  least 
important  members  had  most  of  his  genius  in 
them.  The  younger  of  the  brothers,  the  scape- 
grace son,  and  “ Fanny  dear,”  are  perfectly  real 


people  in  what  makes  them  unattractive;  but 
what  is  meant  for  attractiveness  in  the  heroine 
becomes  often  tiresome  by  want  of  reality. 

The  first  number  appeared  in  December,  1855, 
and  on  its  sale  there  was  an  exultant  note. 


3i6 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICIvENS. 


“ lAttle  Dorrit  has  beaten  even  Bleak  House  out 
of  the  field.  It  is  a most  tremendous  start,  and 
I am  overjoyed  at  it;”  to  which  he  added, 
writing  from  Paris  on  the  6th  of  the  month  fol- 
lowing, “You  know  that  they  had  sold  35,000  of 


number  two  on  new  year’s  day.”  He  was  still 
in  Paris  on  the  day  of  the  appearance  of  that 
portion  of  the  tale  by  which  it  will  always  be 
most  vividly  remembered,  and  thus  wrote  on  the 
30th  of  January  1856  : “I  have  a grim  pleasure 


upon  me  to-night  in  thinking  that  the  Circum- 
locution Office  sees  the  light,  and  in  wondering 
what  effect  it  will  make.  But  my  head  really 
stings  with  the  visions  of  the  book,  and  I am 
going,  as  we  French  say,  to  disembarrass  it  by 
plunging  out  into  some  of  the  strange  places  I 


glide  into  of  nights  in  these  latitudes.”  The 
Circumlocution  heroes  led  to  the  Society  scenes, 
the  Hampton-court  dowager-sketches,  and  Mr. 
Govvan  ; all  parts  of  one  satire  levelled  against 
prevailing  political  and  social  vices.  Aim  had 
been  taken,  in  the  course  of  it,  at  some  living 


LITTLE  DORRIT,  A 

originals,  disguised  sufficiently  from  recognition 
to  enable  him  to  make  his  thrust  more  sure  ; 
but  there  was  one  exception  self-revealed.  “ I 
hail  the  general  idea,”  he  wrote  while  engaged 
on  the  sixth  number,  “ of  the  Society  business 
before  the  Sadleir  affair,  but  I shaped  Mr.  Merdle 
himself  out  of  that  precious  rascality.  Society, 
the  Circumlocution  Office,  and  Mr.  Gowan,  are 
of  course  three  parts  of  one  idea  and  design. 
Mr.  Merdle’s  complaint,  which  you  will  find  in 
the  end  to  be  fraud  and  forgery,  came  into  my 
mind  as  the  last  drop  in  the  silver  cream-jug  on 
Hampstead-heath.  I shall  beg,  when  you  have 
read  the  present  number,  to  enquire  whether  you 
consider  ‘ Bar  ’ an  instance,  in  reference  to  K F, 
of  a suggested  likeness  in  not  many  touches?” 
The  likeness  no  one  could  mistake ; and,  though 
that  particular  Bar  has  since  been  moved  into 
a higher  and  happier  sphere,  Westminster-hall  is 
in  no  danger  of  losing  “the  insinuating  Jury- 
droop,  and  persuasive  double  eye-glass,”  by 
which  this  keen  observer  could  express  a type 
of  character  in  half  a dozen  words. 

Of  the  other  portions  of  the  book  that  had  a 
strong  personal  interest  for  him  I have  spoken 
on  a former  page  {ante,  24),  and  I will  naw 
only  add  an  allusion  of  his  own.  “ There  are 
some  things  in  Flora  in  number  seven  that  seem 
to  me  to  be  extraordinarily  droll,  with  something 
serious  at  the  bottom  of  them  after  all.  Ah, 
well ! was  there  not  something  very  serious  in  it 
once  ? I am  glad  to  think  of  being  in  the  country 
with  the  long  summer  mornings  as  I approach 
nun>ber  ten,  where  I have  finally  resolved  to 
make  Dorrit  rich.  It  should  be  a very  fine  point 

in  the  story Nothing  in  Flora  made  me 

laugh  so  much  as  the  confusion  of  ideas  between 
gout  flying  upwards,  and  its  soaring  with  Mr. 

F to  another  sphere”  (April  7th).  He  had 

himself  no  inconsiderable  enjoyment  also  of  Mr. 
F.’s  Aunt ; and  in  the  old  rascal  of  a patriarch, 
the  smooth-surfaced  Casby,  and  other  surround- 
ings of  poor  Flora,  there  was  fun  enough  to  float 
an  argosy  of  second-rates,  assuming  such  to  have 
formed  the  staple  of  the  tale.  It  would  be  far 
from  fair  to  say  they  did.  The  defect  in  the 
book  was  less  the  absence  of  excellent  character 
or  keen  observation,  than  the  want  of  ease  and 
coherence  among  the  figures  of  the  story,  and  of 
a central  interest  in  the  plan  of  it.  The  agencies 
that  bring  about  its  catastrophe,  too,  are  less 
agreeable  even  than  in  Bleak  House;  and,  most 
unlike  that  well-constructed  story,  some  of  the 
most  deeply-considered  things  that  occur  in  it 
have  really  little  to  do  with  the  tale  itself.  The 
surface-painting  of  both  Miss  Wade  and  Tatty- 
coram,  to  take  an  instance,  is  anything  but  at- 


ND  A L.AZY  TOUR.  zn 


tractive,  yet  there  is  under  it  a rare  force  of  like- 
ness in  the  unlikeness  between  the  two  which 
has  much  subtlety  of  intention  ; and  they  must 
both  have  had,  as  well  as  Mr.  Gowan  himself,  a 
striking  effect  in  the  novel,  if  they  had  been  made 
to  contribute  in  a more  essential  way  to  its  in- 
terest or  development.  The  failure  nevertheless 
had  not  been  for  want  of  care  and  study,  as  well 
of  his  own  design  as  of  models  by  masters  in  his 
art.  A happier  hint  of  apology,  for  example, 
could  hardly  be  given  for  Fielding’s  introduction 
of  such  an  episode  as  the  Man  of  the  Hill  be- 
tween the  youth  and  manhood  of  Blifil  and  Tom 
Jones,  than  is  suggested  by  what  Dickens  wrote 
of  the  least  interesting  part  of  Little  Dorrit.  In 
the  mere  form.  Fielding  of  course  was  only  fol- 
lowing the  lead  of  Cervantes  and  Le  Sage ; but 
Dickens  rightly  judged  his  purpose  also  to  have 
been,  to  supply  a kind  of  connection  between 
the  episode  and  the  story.  “ I don’t  see  the 
practicability  of  making  the  History  of  a Self- 
Tormentor,  with  which  I took  great  pains,  a 
written  narrative.  But  I do  see  the  possibility  ” 
(he  saw  the  other  practicability  before  the  num- 
ber w'as  published)  “ of  making  it  a chapter  by 
itself,  which  might  enable  me  to  dispense  with 
the  necessity  of  the  turned  commas.  Do  you 
think  that  would  be  better  ? I have  no  doubt 
that  a great  part  of  Fielding’s  reason  for  the  in- 
troduced story,  and  Smollett’s  also,  was,  that  it 
is  sometimes  really  impossible  to  present,  in  a 
full  book,  the  idea  it  contains  (which  yet  it  may 
be  on  all  accounts  desirable  to  present),  without 
supposing  the  reader  to  be  possessed  of  almost 
as  much  romantic  allowance  as  would  put  him 
on  a level  with  the  writer.  In  Miss  Wade  I had 
an  idea,  which  I thought  a new  one,  of  making 
the  introduced  story  so  fit  into  surroundings  im- 
possible of  separation  from  the  main  story,  as  to 
make  the  blood  of  the  book  circulate  through 
both.  But  I can  only  suppose,  from  what  you 
say,  that  I have  not  exactly  succeeded  in  this.” 
Shortly  after  the  date  of  his  letter  he  rvas  in 
London  on  business  connected  with  the  pur- 
chase of  Gadshill  Place,  and  he  went  over  to  the 
Borough  to  see  what  traces  w'ere  left  of  the 
prison  of  which  his  first  impression  was  taken  in 
his  boyhood,  which  had  played  so  important  a 
part  in  this  latest  novel,  and  every  brick  and 
stone  of  which  he  had  been  able  to  rebuild  in 
his  book  by  the  mere  vividness  of  his  marvellous 
memory.  “ Went  to  the  Borough  yesterday 
morning  before  going  to  Gadshill,  to  see  if  I 
could  find  any  ruins  of  the  Marshalsea.  Found 
a great  part  of  the  original  building — now  ‘ Mar- 
shalsea Place.’  Found  the  rooms  that  have  been 
in  my  mind’s  eye  in  the  story.  Found,  nursing 


3i8  the  life  of  CHARLES  DICICENS. 


n,  very  big  boy,  a very  small  boy,  who,  seeing 
me  stand  on  the  Marshalsea  pavement,  looking 
about,  told  me  how  it  all  used  to  be.  God 
knows  how  he  learned  it  (for  he  was  a world  too 
young  to  know  anything  about  it),  but  he  was 

right  enough There  is  a room  there — 

still  standing,  to  my  amazement — that  I think  of 
taking  ! It  is  the  room  through  which  the  ever- 
memorable  signers  of  Captain  Porter’s  petition 
filed  off  in  my  boyhood”  {ante,  15).  “The 
spikes  are  gone,  and  the  wall  is  lowered,  and 
anybody  can  go  out  now  who  likes  to  go,  and  is 
not  bed-ridden ; and  I said  to  the  boy,  ‘ Who 
lives  there?’  and  he  said,  ‘Jack  Pithick.” 
‘ Who  is  Jack  Pithick  ?’  I asked  him.  And  he 
said,  ‘ Joe  Pithick’s  uncle.’  ” 

Mention  was  made  of  this  visit  in  the  preface 
that  appeared  with  the  last  number ; and  all  it  is 
necessary  to  add  of  the  completed  book  will  be, 
that,  though  in  the  humour  and  satire  of  its 
finer  parts  not  unworthy  of  him,  and  though  it 
had  the  clear  design,  worthy  of  him  in  an  espe- 
cial degree,  of  contrasting,  both  in  private  and 
in  public  life,  and  in  poverty  equally  as  in 
wealth,  duty  done  and  duty  not  done,  it  made 
no  material  addition  to  his  reputation.  His 
public,  however,  showed  no  falling  off  in  its 
enormous  numbers ; and  what  is  said  in  one  of 
his  letters,  noticeable  for  this  touch  of  character, 
illustrates  his  anxiety  to  avoid  any  set-off  from 
the  disquiet  that  critical  discourtesies  might  give. 
“ I was  ludicrously  foiled  here  the  other  night  in 
a resolution  I have  kept  for  twenty  years  not  to 
know  of  any  attack  upon  myself,  by  stumbling, 
before  I could  pick  myself  up,  on  a short  extract 
in  the  Globe  from  Blackwood' s Magazine,  in- 
forming me  \X\dX  Little  Dorrit  is  ‘ Twaddle.’  I 
was  sufficiently  put  out  by  it  to  be  angry  with 
myself  for  being  such  a fool,  and  then  pleased 
with  myself  for  having  so  long  been  constant  to 
a good  resolution.”  There  was  a scene  that 
I made  itself  part  of  history  not  four  months  after 
I his  death,  which,  if  he  could  have  lived  to  hear 
of  it,  might  have  more  than  consoled  him.  It  was 
the  meeting  of  Bi.smarck  and  Jules  Favre  under 
the  walls  of  Paris.  The  Prussian  was  waiting 
to  open  fire  on  the  city;  the  Frenchman  was 
engaged  in  the  arduous  task  of  showing  the 
wisdom  of  not  doing  it ; and  “ we  learn,”  say 
I the  papers  of  the  day,  “ that  while  the  two  emi- 
nent statesmen  were  trying  to  find  a basis  of 
negotiation.  Von  Moltke  was  seated  in  a corner 
reading  lAttle  Dorrit."  Who  will  doubt  that  the 
chapter  on  How  not  to  do  it  was  then  absorb- 
ing the  old  soldier’s  attention? 


Preparations  for  the  private  play  had  gone  on 


incessantly  up  to  Christmas,  and,  in  turning  the 
schoolroom  into  a theatre,  sawing  and  hammer- 
ing worthy  of  Babel  continued  for  weeks.  The 
priceless  help  of  Stanfield  had  again  been  se- 
cured, and  I remember  finding  him  one  day  at 
Tavistock  House  in  the  act  of  upsetting  some 
elaborate  arrangements  by  Dickens,  with  a pre- 
scenium  before  him  made  up  of  chairs,  and  the 
scenery  planned  out  with  walking-sticks.  But 
Dickens’s  art  in  a matter  of  this  kind  was  to 
know  how  to  take  advice  ; and  no  suggestion 
came  to  him  that  he  was  not  ready  to  act  upon, 
if  it  presented  the  remotest  likelihood.  In  one 
! of  his  great  difficulties  of  obtaining  more  space, 
for  audience  as  well  as  actors,  he  was  told  that 
Mr.  Cooke  of  Astley’s  was  a man  of  much  re- 
source in  that  way ; and  to  Mr.  Cooke  he  ap- 
plied, with  the  following  result.  “ One  of  the 
finest  things”  (i 8th  of  October  1856)  “I  have 
ever  seen  in  my  life  of  that  kind  was  the  arrival 
of  my  friend  Mr.  Cooke  one  morning  this  week, 
in  an  open  phaeton  drawn  by  two  white  ponies 
with  black  spots  all  over  them  (evidently  sten- 
cilled), who  came  in  at  the  gate  with  a little  jolt 
and  a rattle,  exactly  as  they  come  into  the  Ring 
! when  they  draw  anything,  and  went  round  and 
round  the  centre  bed  of  the  front  court,  appa- 
rently looking  for  the  clown.  A multitude  of 
boys  who  felt  them  to  be  no  common  ponies 
rushed  up  in  a breathless  state — twined  them- 
selves like  ivy  about  the  railings — and  were  only 
deterred  from  storming  the  enclosure  by  trie 
glare  of  the  Inimitable’s  eye.  Some  of  these 
boys  had  evidently  followed  from  Astley’s.  I 
grieve  to  add  that  my  friend,  being  taken  to  the 
point  of  difficulty,  had  no  sort  of  suggestion  in 
him  ; no  gleam  of  an  idea  ; and  might  just  as  well 
have  been  the  jiopular  minister  from  the  Taber- 
nacle in  Tottenham  Court  Road.  All  he  could 
say  was — answering  me,  posed  in  the  garden, 
precisely  as  if  I were  the  clown  asking  him  a 
riddle  at  night — that  two  of  their  stable  tents 
would  be  home  in  November,  and  that  they 
were  ‘ 20  foot  square,’  and  I was  heartily  wel- 
come to  ’em.  Also,  he  said,  ‘ You  might  have 
half  a dozen  of  my  trapezes,  or  my  middle- 
distance  tables,  but  they’re  all  6 foot  and  all  too 
low  sir.’  Since  then,  1 have  arranged  to  do  it  in 
my  own  way,  and  with  my  own  carpenter.  You 
will  be  surprised  by  the  look  of  the  place.  It  is 
no  more  like  the  schoolroom  than  it  is  like  the 
sign  of  the  Salutation  Inn  at  Ambleside  in  West- 
moreland. The  sounds  in  the  house  remind  me, 
as  to  the  present  time,  of  Chatham  dockyard — as 
to  a remote  epoch,  of  the  building  of  Noah’s  ark. 
Joiners  are  never  out  of  the  house,  and  the  carpen- 
ter appears  to  be  unsettled  (or  settled)  for  life.” 


LITTLE  DORRIT,  AND  A LAZY  TOUR. 


Of  course  time  did  not  mend  matters,  and  as 
Cliristmas  approached  the  liouse  was  in  a state 
of  siege.  “ All  day  long,  a labourer  heats  size 
over  the  fire  in  a great  crucible.  We  eat  it, 
drink  it,  breathe  it,  and  smell  it.  Seventy  paint- 
pots  (which  came  in  a van)  adorn  the  stage ; 
and  thereon  may  be  beheld,  Stanny,  and  three 
Dansons  (from  the  Surrey  Zoological  Gardens), 
all  painting  at  once  ! ! Meanwhile,  Telbin,  in  a 
secluded  bower  in  Brewer-street,  Golden-square, 
plies  /i/s  part  of  the  little  undertaking.”  How 
worthily  it  turned  out  in  the  end,  the  excellence 
of  the  performances  and  the  delight  of  the  audi- 
ences, became  known  to  all  London  ; and  the 
pressure  for  admittance  at  last  took  the  form  of 
a tragi-comedy,  composed  of  ludicrous  make- 
shifts and  gloomy  disappointments,  with  which 
even  Dickens’s  resources  could  not  deal.  “ My 
audience  is  now  93,”  he  wrote  one  day  in  de- 
spair, “and  at  least  10  will  neither  hear  nor 
see.”  There  was  nothing  for  it  but  to  increase 
the  number  of  nights;  and  it  was  not  until  the 
20th  of  January  he  described  “ the  workmen 
smashing  the  last  atoms  of  the  theatre.” 

His  book  was  finished  soon  after  at  Gadshill 
Place,  to  be  presently  described,  which  he  had 
purchased  the  previous  year,  and  taken  posses- 
sion of  in  February;  subscribing  himself,  in  the 
letter  announcing  the  fact,  as  “ the  Kentish 
Freeholder  on  his  native  heath,  his  name  Pro- 
tection.” The  new  abode  occupied  him  in 
various  ways  in  the  early  part  of  the  summer ; 
and  Hans  Andersen  the  Dane  had  just  arrived 
upon  a visit  to  him  there,  when  Douglas  Jer- 
rold’s  unexpected  death  befell.  It  was  a shock 
to  every  one,  and  an  especial  grief  to  Dickens. 
Jerrold’s  wit,  and  the  bright  shrewd  intellect 
that  had  so  many  triumphs,  need  no  celebration 
from  me  ; but  the  keenest  of  satirists  was  one  of 
the  kindliest  of  men,  and  Dickens  had  a fond- 
ness for  Jerrold  as  genuine  as  his  admiration  for 
him.  “ I chance  to  know  a good  deal  about 
the  poor  fellow’s  illness,  for  I was  with  him  on 
the  last  day  he  was  out.  It  was  ten  days  ago, 
when  we  dined  at  a dinner  given  by  Russell  at 
Greenwich.  He  was  complaining  much  when 
we  met,  said  he  had  been  sick  three  days,  and 
attributed  it  to  the  inhaling  of  white  paint  from 
his  study  window.  I did  not  think  much  of  it 
at  the  moment,  as  we  were  very  social ; but 
while  we  walked  through  Leicester-square  he 
suddenly  fell  into  a white,  hot,  sick  perspiration, 
and  had  to  lean  against  the  railings.  Then,  at 
my  urgent  request,  he  was  to  let  me  put  him  in 
a cab  and  send  him  home  ; but  he  rallied  a little 
after  that,  and,  on  our  meeting  Russell,  deter- 
mined to  come  with  us.  We  three  went  down 


319 

by  steamboat  that  we  might  see  the  great  ship, 
and  then  got  an  open  fly  and  rode  about  Black- 
heath  : poor  Jerrold  mightily  enjoying  the  air, 
and  constantly  saying  that  it  set  him  up.  He 
was  rather  quiet  at  dinner — sat  next  Delane-— 
but  was  very  humorous  and  good,  and  in  spirits, 
though  he  took  hardly  anything.  We  parted 
with  references  to  coming  down  here  ” (Gads- 
hill) “ and  I never  saw  him  again.  Next  morn- 
ing he  was  taken  very  ill  when  he  tried  to  get 
up.  On  the  Wednesday  and  Thursday  he  was 
very  bad,  but  rallied  on  the  Friday,  and  was 
quite  confident  of  getting  well.  On  the  Sunday 
he  was  very  ill  again,  and  on  the  Monday  fore- 
noon died ; ‘ at  peace  with  all  the  world  ’ he 
said,  and  asking  to  be  remembered  to  friends. 
He  had  become  indistinct  and  insensible,  until 
for  but  a few  minutes  at  the  end.  I knew 
nothing  about  it,  except  that  he  had  been  ill 
and  was  better,  until,  going  up  by  railway  yes- 
terday morning,  I heard  a man  in  the  carriage, 
unfolding  his  newspaper,  say  to  another  ‘ Douglas 
Jerrold  is  dead.’  I immediately  went  up  there, 
and  then  to  Whitefriars. ,....!  propose  that 
there  shall  be  a night  at  a theatre  when  the 
actors  (with  old  Cooke)  shall  play  the  Rent  Day 
and  Black-ey’d  Susan ; another  night  elsewhere, 
with  a lecture  from  Thackeray ; a day  reading 
by  me ; a night  reading  by  me ; a lecture  by 
Russell ; and  a subscription  performance  of  the 
Frozen  Deep,  as  at  Tavistock  House.  I don’t 
mean  to  do  it  beggingly ; but  merely  to  an- 
nounce the  whole  series,  the  day  after  the 
funeral,  ‘ In  memory  of  the  late  Mr.  Douglas 
Jerrold,’  or  some  such  phrase.  I have  got  hold 
of  Arthur  Smith  as  the  best  man  of  business  I 
know,  and  go  to  work  with  him  to-morrow 
morning — inquiries  being  made  in  the  mean- 
time as  to  the  likeliest  places  to  be  had  for 
these  various  purposes.  My  confident  hope  is 
that  we  shall  get  close  upon  two  thousand 
pounds.” 

The  friendly  enterprise  was  carried  to  the 
close  with  a vigour,  promptitude,  and  success, 
that  well  corresponded  with  this  opening.  In 
addition  to  the  performances  named,  there  were 
ofhers  in  the  country  also  organized  by  Dickens, 
in  which  he  took  active  personal  part ; and  the 
result  did  not  fall  short  of  his  expectations. 
The  sum  was  invested  ultimately  for  our  friend’s 
unmarried  daughter,  who  now  receives,  under 
direction  of  the  Court  of  Chancery,  the  income 
of  it  until  lately  paid  by  myself,  the  last  .surviving 
trustee. 

So  passed  the  greater  part  of  the  summer, 
and  when  the  country  performances  were  over 
at  the  end  of  August  I had  this  intimation.  “ I 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  EL  CHE  NS. 


have  arranged  with  Collins  that  he  and  I will 
start  next  Monday  on  a ten  or  twelve  days’  ex- 
pedition to  out-of-the-way  places,  to  do  (in  inns 
and  coast-corners)  a little  tour  in  search  of  an 
article  and  in  avoidance  of  railroads.  I must 
get  a good  name  for  it,  and  I propose  it  in  five 
articles,  one  for  the  beginning  of  every  number 
in  the  October  part."  Next  day:  “Our  deci- 
sion is  fora  foray  upon  the  fells  of  Cumberland  ; 
I having  discovered  in  the  books  some  promis- 
ing moors  and  bleak  places  thereabout.”  Into 
the  lake-country  they  went  accordingly ; and 
The  Lazy  Tour  of  Two  Idle  Apprentices,  con- 
tributed to  Household  JFords,  related  the  trip. 
But  his  letters  had  descriptive  touches,  and 
some  whimsical  experiences,  not  in  the  pub- 
lished account. 

Looking  over  the  Beauties  of  England  and 
IVales  before  he  left  London,  his  ambition  was 
fired  by  mention  of  Carrick  Fell,  “ a gloomy  old 
mountain  1500  feet  high,”  which  he  secretly 
resolved  to  go  up.  “We  came  straight  to  it 
yesterday”  (9th  of  September).  “ Nobody  goes 
up.  Guides  have  forgotten  it.  Master  of  a 
little  inn,  excellent  north-countryman,  volun- 
teered. Went  up,  in  a tremendous  rain.  C.  D. 
beat  Mr.  Porter  (name  of  landlord)  in  half  a 
mile.  Mr.  P.  done  up  in  no  time.  Three 
nevertheless  went  on.  Mr.  P.  again  leading; 
C.  D.  and  C.”  (Mr.  Wilkie  Collins)  “ following. 
Rain  terrific,  black  mists,  darkness  of  night. 
Mr.  P.  agitated.  C.  D.  confident.  C.  (a  long 
way  down  in  perspective)  submissive.  All  wet 
through.  No  poles.  Not  so  much  as  a walk- 
ing-stick in  the  party.  Reach  the  summit  at 
about  one  in  the  day.  Dead  darkness  as  of 
night.  Mr.  P.  (excellent  fellow  to  the  last)  un- 
easy. C.  D.  produces  compass  from  pocket. 
Mr.  P.  reassured.  Farm-house  where  dog-cart 
Avas  left,  N.N.W.  Mr.  P.  complimentary.  De- 
scent commenced.  C.  D.  with  compass  tri- 
umphant, until  compass,  Avith  the  heat  and  Avet 
of  C.  D.’s  pocket,  breaks.  Mr.  P.  (who  never 
had  a compass),  inconsolable,  confesses  he  has 
not  been  on  Carrick  Fell  for  tAventy  years,  and 
he  don’t  knoAv  the  Avay  down.  Ilarker  and 
darker.  Nobody  discernible,  two  yards  off,  by 
the  other  two.  Mr.  P.  makes  suggestions,  but 
no  Avay.  It  becomes  clear  to  C.  D.  and  to  C. 
that  Mr.  P.  is  going  round  and  round  the  moun- 
tain, and  never  coming  down.  Mr.  P.  sits  on 
angular  granite,  and  says  he  is  ‘just  fairly  doon.’ 
C.  1).  revives  Mr.  P.  Avith  laughter,  the  only 
restorative  in  the  company.  Mr.  P.  again  com- 
plimentary. Descent  tried  once  more.  Mr.  P. 
Avorse  and  Avorse.  Council  of  Avar.  Proposals 
from  C.  D.  to  go  ‘ slap  down.’  Seconded  by  C. 


Mr.  P.  objects,  on  account  of  precipice  called 
The  Black  Arches,  and  terror  of  the  countryside. 
More  Avandering.  Mr.  P.  terror-stricken,  but 
game.  Watercourse,  thundering  and  roaring, 
reached.  C.  D.  suggests  that  it  must  run  to 
the  river,  and  had  best  be  folloAved,  subject  to 
all  gymnastic  hazards.  Mr.  P.  opposes,  but 
gives  in.  Watercourse  folloAved  accordingly. 
Leaps,  splashes,  and  tumbles,  for  tAvo  hours. 
C.  lost.  C.  D.  Avhoops.  Cries  for  assistance 
from  behind.  C.  D.  returns.  C.  Avith  horribly 
sprained  ankle,  lying  in  rivulet  ! ” 

All  the  danger  Avas  over  Avhen  Dickens  sent 
his  description ; but  great  had  been  the  trouble 
in  binding  up  the  sufferer’s  ankle  and  getting 
him  painfully  on,  shoving,  shouldering,  carrying 
alternately,  till  terra  firma  Avas  reached.  “We 
got  doAvn  at  last  in  the  Avildest  place,  prepos- 
terously out  of  the  course ; and  propping  up  C. 
against  stones,  sent  Mr.  P.  to  the  other  side  of 
Cumberland  for  dog-cart,  so  got  back  to  his  inn, 
and  changed.  Shoe  or  stocking  on  the  bad  foot 
out  of  the  question.  Foot  bundled  up  in  a 
flannel  Avaistcoat.  C.  D.  carrying  C.  melodra- 
matically (Wardour  to  the  life!)  everyAvhere ; 
into  and  out  of  carriages ; up  and  doAvn  stairs ; 
to  bed ; every  step.  And  so  to  Wigton,  got 
doctor,  and  here  Ave  are  I ! A pretty  business, 
Ave  flatter  ourselves  ! ” 

Wigton,  Dickens  described  as  a place  of  little 
houses  all  in  half-mourning,  yelloAv  stone  or  Avhite 
stone  and  black,  Avith  the  Avonderful  peculiarity 
that  though  it  had  no  population,  no  business, 
and  no  streets  to  speak  of,  it  had  five  linen- 
drapers  Avithin  range  of  their  single  AvindoAA-,  one 
linendraper  next  door,  and  five  more  linen- 
drapers  round  the  corner.  “ I ordered  a night 
light  in  my  bed-room.  A queer  little  old  Avoman 
brought  me  one  of  the  common  Child’s  night 
lights,  and  seeming  to  think  that  I looked  at  it 
Avith  interest,  said,  ‘It’s  joost  a vara  keeyourious 
thing,  sir,  and  joost  neAV  coom  oop.  It’ll  burn 
aAvt  boors  a’  end,  and  no  gootther,  nor  no  Avaste, 
nor  ony  sike  a thing,  if  ye  can  creedit  Avhat  I 
say,  seein’  the  airticle.’  ” In  these  primitive 
quarters  there  befell  a difficulty  about  letters, 
Avhich  Dickens  solved  in  a fashion  especially  his 
OAvn.  “ The  day  after  Carrick  there  Avas  a mess 
about  our  letters,  through  our  not  going  to  a 
place  called  Mayport.  So,  Avhile  the  landlord 
Avas  planning  hoAv  to  get  them  (they  were  only 
tAvelve  miles  off),  I Avalked  ofl',  to  his  great 
astonishment,  and  brought  them  over.”  Tire 
night  after  leaving  Wigton  they  Avere  at  the 
Ship-hotel  in  Allonby. 

Allonbyhis  letters  irrcsented  as  a small  untidy 
outlandish  place  : rough  stone  houses  in  half 


WHAT  HAPPENED  AT  THIS  TIME. 


321 


mourninii,  a few  coarse  yellow-stone  lodging- 
houses  with  black  roofs  (bills  in  all  the  winnows), 
five  bathing  machines,  five  girls  in  straw  hats, 
five  men  in  straw  hats  (wishing  they  had  not 
come)  j very  much  what  Broadstairs  would  have 
been  if  it  had  been  born  Irish,  and  had  not 
inherited  a cliff.  “ But  this  is  a capital  little 
homely  inn,  looking  out  upon  the  sea ; with  the 
coast  of  Scotland,  mountainous  and  romantic, 
over  against  the  windows ; and  though  I can 
just  stand  upright  in  my  bedroom,  we  are  really 
well  lodged.  It  is  a clean  nice  place  in  a rough 
wild  country,  and  we  have  a very  obliging  and 
comfortable  landlady.”  He  had  found  indeed, 
in  the  latter,  an  acquaintance  of  old  date.  “ The 
landlady  at  the  little  inn  at  Allonby,  lived  at 
Greta-Bridge  in  Yorkshire  when  I went  down 
there  before  Nickleby  j and  was  smuggled  into 
the  room  to  see  me,  after  I was  secretly  found 
out.  She  is  an  immensely  fat  woman  now. 

‘ But  I could  tuck  my  arm  round  her  waist  then, 
Mr.  Dickens,’  the  landlord  said  when  she  told 
me  the  story  as  I was  going  to  bed  the  night 
before  last.  ‘ And  can’t  you  do  it  now,’  I said. 

‘ You  insensible  dog  ! Look  at  me  ! Here’s  a 
picture  ! ’ Accordingly,  I got  round  as  much  of 
her  as  I could  ; and  this  gallant  action  was  the 
most  successful  I have  ever  performed,  on  the 
whole.” 

On  their  way  home  the  friends  were  at  Don- 
caster, and  this  was  Dickens’s  first  experience  of 
the  St.  Leger  and  its  saturnalia.  His  com- 
panion had  by  this  time  so  far  recovered  as  to 
be  able,  doubled-up,  to  walk  with  a thick  stick; 
in  which  condition,  “ being  exactly  like  the  gouty 
admiral  in  a comedy  I have  given  him  that 
name.”  The  impressions  received  from  the 
race-week  were  not  favourable.  It  was  noise 
and  turmoil  all  day  long,  and  a gathering  of 
vagabonds  from  all  parts  of  the  racing  earth. 
Every  bad  face  that  had  ever  caught  wickedness 
from  an  innocent  horse  had  its  representative  in 
the  streets ; and  as  Dickens,  like  Gulliver  look- 
ing down  upon  his  fellow-men  after  coming  from 
the  horse-country,  looked  down  into  Doncaster 
High-street  from  his  inn-window,  he  seemed 
to  see  everywhere  a then  notorious  personage 
who  had  Just  poisoned  his  betting-companion. 
“Everywhere  I see  the  late  Mr.  Palmer  with  his 
betting-book  in  his  hand.  Mr.  Palmer  sits  next 
me  at  the  theatre ; Mr.  Palmer  goes  before  me 
down  the  street;  Mr.  Palmer  follows  me  into 
the  chemist’s  shop  where  I go  to  buy  rose  water 
after  breakfast,  and  says  to  the  chemist  ‘ Give 
us  soom  sal  volatile  or  soom  damned  thing  o’ 
that  soort,  in  wather — my  head’s  bad  ! ’ And  I 
look  at  the  back  of  his  bad  head  repeated  in 


long,  long  lines  on  the  race  course,  and  in  the 
betting-stand  and  outside  the  betting-rooms  in 
the  town,  and  I vow  to  God  that  I can  see 
nothing  in  it  but  cruelty,  covetousness,  calcula- 
tion, insensibility,  and  low  wickedness.” 

Even  a half-appalling  kind  of  luck  was  not 
absent  from  my  friend’s  experiences  at  the  race 
course,  when,  what  he  called  a “wonderful, 
paralysing,  coincidence  ” befell  him.  He  bought 
the  card  ; facetiously  wrote  down  three  names 
for  the  winners  of  the  three  chief  races  (never  in 
his  life  having  heard  or  thought  of  any  of  the 
horses,  except  that  the  winner  of  the  Derby,  who 
proved  to  be  nowhere,  had  been  mentioned  to 
him) ; “ and,  if  you  can  believe  it  without  your 
hair  standing  on  end,  those  three  races  were 
won,  one  after  another,  by  those  three  horses  ! ! !” 
That  was  the  St.  Leger-day,  of  which  he  also- 
thought  it  noticeable,  that,  though  the  losses 
were  enormous,  nobody  had  won,  for  there  was 
nothing  but  grinding  of  teeth  and  blaspheming 
of  ill-luck.  Nor  had  matters  mended  on  the 
Cup-day,  after  which  celebration  “ a groaning 
phantom  ” lay  in  the  doorway  of  his  bed-room 
and  howled  all  night.  The  landlord  came  up 
in  the  morning  to  apologise,  “ and  said  it  was  a 
gentleman  who  had  lost  ;,Ci5oo  or  ^^2000  ; and 
he  had  drunk  a deal  afterwards ; and  then  they 
put  him  to  bed,  and  then  he — took  the  ’errors, 
and  got  up,  and  yelled  till  morning.”  Dickens 
might  well  believe,  as  he  declared  at  the  end  of 
his  letter,  that  if  a boy  with  any  good  in  him, 
but  with  a dawning  propensity  to  sporting  and 
betting,  were  but  brought  to  the  Doncaster 
races  soon  enough,  it  would  cure  him. 


II. 


WHAT  HAPPENED  AT  THIS  TIME. 
1857—1858. 

N unsettled  feeling  greatly  in  excess 
of  what  was  usual  with  Dickens,  more 
or  less  observable  since  his  first  re- 
sidence at  Boulogne,  became  at  this 
time  almost  habitual,  and  the  satis- 
factions which  home  should  have 
supplied,  and  which  indeed  were 
essential  requirements  of  his  nature,  he 
had  failed  to  find  in  his  home.  He  had  not  the 
alternative  that  under  this  disappointment  some 
can  discover  in  what  is  called  society.  It  did 
not  suit  him,  and  he  set  no  store  by  it.  No  man 
was  better  fitted  to  adorn  any  circle  he  entered. 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


322 


but  beyond  that  of  friends  and  equals  he  rarely 
passed.  He  would  take  as  much  pains  to  keep 
out  of  the  houses  of  the  great  as  others  take  to 
get  into  them.  Not  always  wisely,  it  may  be 
admitted.  Mere  contempt  for  toadyism  and 
flunkeyism  was  not  at  all  times  the  prevailing 
motive  with  him  which  he  supposed  it  to  be. 
Beneath  his  horror  of  those  vices  of  Englishmen 
in  his  own  rank  of  life,  there  was  a still  stronger 
resentment  at  the  social  inequalities  that  en- 
gender them,  of  which  he  was  not  so  conscious 
and  to  which  he  owned  less  freely.  Not  the 
less  it  served  secretly  to  justify  what  he  might 
otherwise  have  had  no  mind  to.  To  say  he  was 
not  a gentleman  would  be  as  true  as  to  say  he 
was  not  a writer;  but  if  any  one  should  assert 
his  occasional  preference  for  what  was  even  be- 
neath his  level  over  that  which  was  above  it, 
this  would  be  difficult  of  disproof.  It  was  among 
those  defects  of  temperament  for  which  his  early 
trials  and  his  early  successes  were  accountable 
in  perhaps  equal  measure.  He  was  sensitive  in 
a passionate  degree  to  praise  and  blame,  which 
yet  he  made  it  for  the  most  part  a point  of  pride 
to  assume  indifference  to  ; the  inequalities  of 
rank  which  he  secretly  resented  took  more  gall- 
ing as  well  as  glaring  prominence  from  the  con- 
trast of  the  necessities  he  had  gone  through  with 
the  fame  that  had  come  to  him ; and  when  the 
forces  he  most  affected  to  despise  assumed  the 
form  of  barriers  he  could  not  easily  overleap,  he 
was  led  to  appear  frequently  intolerant  (for  he 
very  seldom  was  really  so)  in  opinions  and  lan- 
guage. His  early  sufferings  brought  with  them 
the  healing  powers  of  energy,  will,  and  persist- 
ence, and  taught  him  the  inexpressible  value  of 
a determined  resolve  to  live  down  difficulties  ; 
but  the  habit,  in  small  as  in  great  things,  of  re- 
nunciation and  self-sacrifice,  they  did  not  teach  ; 
and,  by  his  sudden  leap  into  a world-wide  popu- 
larity and  influence,  he  became  master  of  every- 
thing that  might  seem  to  be  attainable  in  life, 
before  he  had  mastered  what  a man  must  un- 
dergo to  be  equal  to  its  hardest  trials. 

Nothing  of  all  this  has  yet  presented  itself  to 
notice,  except  in  occasional  forms  of  restlessness 
and  desire  of  change  of  place,  which  were  them- 
selves, when  his  books  were  in  progress,  so  in- 
cident as  well  to  the  active  requirements  of  his 
fancy  as  to  call,  thus  far,  for  no  other  expla- 
nation. Up  to  the  date  of  the  completion  of 
Coppa-ficid  he  had  felt  himself  to  be  in  possession 
of  an  all-sufficient  resource.  Against  whatever 
might  befall  he  had  a set-off  in  his  imaginative 
creations,  a compensation  derived  from  his  art 
that  never  failed  him,  because  there  he  was 
supreme.  It  was  the  world  he  could  bend  to 


his  will,  and  make  subserve  to  all  his  desires. 
He  had  otherwise,  underneath  his  exterior  of  a 
singular  precision,  method,  and  strictly  orderly 
arrangement  in  all  things,  and  notwithstanding  a 
temperament  to  which  home  and  home  inteiests 
were  really  a necessity,  something  in  common 
with  those  eager,  impetuous,  somewhat  over- 
bearing natures,  that  rush  at  existence  without 
heeding  the  cost  of  it,  and  are  not  more  ready 
to  accept  and  make  the  most  of  its  enjoyments 
than  to  be  easily  and  quickly  overthrown  by  its 
burdens.  But  the  world  he  had  called  into  being 
had  thus  far  borne  him  safely  through  these 
perils.  He  had  his  own  creations  always  by  his"^' 
side.  They  were  living,  speaking  companions. 
With  them  only  he  was  everywhere  thoroughly 
identified.  He  laughed  and  wept  with  them; 
was  as  much  elated  by  their  fun  as  cast  down  by 
their  grief;  and  brought  to  the  consideration  of 
them  a belief  in  their  reality  as  well  as  in  the 
influences  they  were  meant  to  exercise,  which  in 
every  circumstance  sustained  him. 

It  was  during  the  composition  of  Little Dorrit 
that  I think  he  first  felt  a certain  strain  upon  his 
invention  which  brought  with  it  other  misgivings. 

In  a modified  form  this  was  present  during  the 
latter  portions  of  Bleak  House,  of  which  not  a few 
of  the  defects  might  be  traced  to  the  acting  ex- 
citements amid  which  it  was  written  ; but  the 
succeeding  book  made  it  plainer  to  him ; and  it 
is  remarkable  that  in  the  interval  between  them 
he  resorted  for  the  first  and  only  time  in  his  life 
to  a practice,  which  he  abandoned  at  the  close 
of  his  next  and  last  story  published  in  the  twenty- 
number  form,  of  putting  down  written  “ Memo- 
randa ” of  suggestions  for  characters  or  incidents 
by  way  of  resource  to  him  in  his  writing.  Never 
before  had  his  teeming  fancy  seemed  to  want 
such  help ; the  need  being  less  to  contribute  to 
its  fulness  than  to  check  its  overflowing;  but  it 
is  another  proof  that  he  had  been  secretly  bring- 
ing before  himself,  at  least,  the  possibility  tliat 
what  had  ever  been  his  great  support  might  some 
day  desert  him.  It  was  strange  that  he  should 
have  had  such  doubt,  and  he  would  hardly  have 
confessed  it  openly  ; but  apart  from  that  wonder- 
ful world  of  his  books,  the  range  of  his  thoughts 
was  not  always  i)ioportioned  to  the  width  and 
largeness  of  his  nature.  Plis  ordinary  circle  of 
activity,  whether  in  likings  or  thinkings,  was  full 
of  such  surprising  animation,  that  one  was  apt  to 
believe  it  more  comprehensive  than  it  really  was  ; 
and  again  and  again,  when  a wide  horizon  might 
seem  to  be  aliead  of  him  he  would  pull  up  sud- 
denly and  stop  short,  as  though  nothing  lay 
beyond.  I'’or  the  time,  though  each  had  its 
term  and  change,  he  Avas  very  much  a man  of 


JF//AT  HAPPENED  AT  THIS  TIME.  323 

one  idea,  each  having  its  turn  of  absolute  pre- 
dominance ; and  this  was  one  of  the  secrets  of 
the  thoroughness  with  which  everything  lie  took 
in  hand  was  done.  As  to  the  matter  of  his 
writings,  the  actual  truth  was  that  his  creative 
genius  never  really  failed  him.  Not  a few  of  his 
inventions  of  character  and  humour,  up  to  the 
very  close  of  his  life,  his  Marigolds,  Lirripers, 
Gargerys,  Pips,  Sapseas  and  many  others,  were 
as  fresh  and  fine  as  in  his  greatest  day.  He  had 
however  lost  the  free  and  fertile  method  of  the 
earlier  time.  He  could  no  longer  fill  a wide- 
spread canvas  with  the  same  facility  and  certainty 
as  of  old ; and  he  had  frequently  a quite  un- 
founded apprehension  of  some  possible  break- 
down, of  which  the  end  might  be  at  any  moment 
beginning.  There  came  accordingly,  from  time 
to  time,  intervals  of  unusual  impatience  and  rest- 
lessness, strange  to  me  in  connection  with  his 
home  ; his  old  pursuits  were  too  often  laid  aside 
for  other  excitements  and  occupations  ; he  joined 
a public  political  agitation,  set  on  foot  by  ad- 
ministrative reformers ; he  got  up  various  quasi- 
public private  theatricals,  in  which  he  took  the 
leading  place  ; and  though  it  was  but  part  of  his 
always  generous  devotion  in  any  friendly  duty  to 
organize  the  series  of  performances  on  his  friend 
Jerrold’s  death,  yet  the  eagerness  with  which  he 
flung  himself  into  them,  so  arranging  them  as  to 
assume  an  amount  of  labour  in  acting  and  travel- 
ling that  might  have  appalled  an  experienced 
comedian,  and  carrying  them  on  week  after  week 
unceasingly  in  London  and  the  provinces,  ex- 
pressed but  the  craving  which  still  had  posses- 
sion of  him  to  get  by  some  means  at  some  change 
that  should  make  existence  easier.  What  was 
highest  in  his  nature  had  ceased  for  the  tirhe  to 
be  highest  in  his  life,  and  he  had  put  himself  at 
the  mercy  of  lower  accidents  and  conditions. 
The  mere  effect  of  the  strolling  wandering  ways 
into  which  this  acting  led  him  could  not  be 
other  than  unfavourable.  But  remonstrance  as 
yet  was  unavailing. 

To  one  very  earnestly  made  in  the  early  au- 
tumn of  1857,  in  which  opportunity  was  taken 
to  compare  his  recent  rush  up  Garrick  Fell  to  his 
rush  into  other  difficulties,  here  was  the  reply. 
^‘Too  late  to  say,  put  the  curb  on,  and  don’t 
rush  at  hills — the  wrong  man  to  say  it  to.  I 
have  now  no  relief  but  in  action.  I am  become 
^ incapable  of  rest.  I am  quite  confident  I should 
rust,  break,  and  die,  if  I spared  myself.  Much 
better  to  die,  doing.  What  I am  in  that  way, 
nature  made  me  first,  and  my  way  of  life  has  of 
late,  alas  ! confirmed.  I must  accept  the  draw- 
back— since  it  is  one — with  the  powers  I have  ; 
and  I must  hold  upon  the  tenure  prescribed  to 

me.”  Something  of  the  same  sad  feeling,  it  is 
right  to  say,  had  been  expressed  from  time  to 
time,  in  connection  also  with  home  dissatisfac- 
tions and  misgivings,  through  the  three  years 
preceding ; but  I attributed  it  to  other  causes, 
and  gave  little  attention  to  it.  During  his  ab- 
sences abroad  for  the  greater  part  of  1854,  ’55, 
and  ’56,  while  the  elder  of  his  children  were 
growing  out  of  childhood,  and  his  books  were 
less  easy  to  him  than  in  his  earlier  manhood, 
evidences  presented  themselves  in  his  letters  of 
the  old  “unhappy  loss  or  want  of  something”  to 
which  he  had  given  a pervading  prominence 
in  Copperfield.  In  the  first  of  those  years  he 
made  express  allusion  to  the  kind  of  experience 
which  had  been  one  of  his  descriptions  in 
that  favourite  book,  and,  mentioning  the  draw- 
backs of  his  present  life,  had  first  identified 
it  with  his  own  : “ the  so  happy  and  yet  so 
unhappy  existence  which  seeks  its  realities  in 
unrealities,  and  finds  its  dangerous  comfort  in  a 
perpetual  escape  from  the  disappointment  of 
heart  around  it.” 

Later  in  the  same  year  he  thus  wrote  from 
Boulogne  : “ I have  had  dreadful  thoughts  of 
getting  away  somewhere  altogether  by  myself. 

If  I could  have  managed  it,  I think  possibly  I 
might  have  gone  to  the  Pyreennees  (you  know 
what  I mean  that  word  for,  so  I won’t  re-write 
it)  for  six  months  ! I have  put  the  idea  into  the 
perspective  of  six  months,  but  have  not  aban- 
doned it.  I have  visions  of  living  for  half  a 
year  or  so,  in  all  sorts  of  inaccessible  places,  and 
opening  a new  book  therein.  A floating  idea  of 
going  up  above  the  snow-line  in  Switzerland, 
and  living  in  some  astonishing  convent,  hovers 
about  me.  If  Household  Words  could  be  got 
into  a good  train,  in  short,  I don’t  know  in  what 
strange  place,  or  at  what  remote  elevation  above 
the  level  of  the  sea,  I might  fall  to  work  next. 
Restlessness,  you  will  say.  Whatever  it  is,  it  is 
always  driving  me,  and  I cannot  help  it.  I have 
rested  nine  or  ten  weeks,  and  sometimes  feel  as 
if  it  had  been  a year — though  I had  the  strangest  | 
nervous  miseries  before  I stopped.  If  I couldn’t 
walk  fast  and  far,  I should  just  explode  and 
perish.”  Again,  four  months  later  he  wrote : 

“ You  will  hear  of  me  in  Paris,  probably  next 
Sunday,  and  I may  go  on  to  Bordeaux.  Have 
general  ideas  of  emigrating  in  the  summer  to  the 
mountain-ground  between  France  and  Spain. 
Am  altogether  in  a dishevelled  state  of  mind — , 
motes  of  new  books  in  the  dirty  air,  miseries  of 
older  growth  threatening  to  close  upon  me. 
Why  is  it,  that  as  with  poor  David,  a sense  1 
comes  always  crushing  on  me  now,  when  I fall 
into  low  spirits,  as  of  one  happiness  I have  j 

THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


324 


missed  in  life,  and  one  friend  and  companion  I 
have  never  made  ? ” 

Early  in  1856  (20th  of  January)  the  notion 
revisited  him  of  writing  a book  in  solitude. 
“ Again  I am  beset  by  my  former  notions  of  a 
book  whereof  the  whole  story  shall  be  on  the 
top  of  the  Great  St.  Bernard.  As  I accept  and 
reject  ideas  for  Little  Dorr  it,  it  perpetually 
comes  back  to  me.  Two  or  three  years  hence, 
perhaps  you’ll  find  me  living  with  the  Monks 
and  the  Dogs  a whole  winter — among  the  blind- 
ing snows  that  fall  about  that  monastery.  I have 
a serious  idea  that  I shall  do  it,  if  I live.”  He 
was  at  this  date  in  Paris ; and  during  the  visit  to 
him  of  Macready  in  the  following  April,  the  self- 
revelations were  resumed.  The  great  actor  was 
then  living  in  retirement  at  Sherborne,  to  which 
he  had  gone  on  quitting  the  stage;  and  Dickens 
gave  favourable  report  of  his  enjoyment  of  the 
change  to  his  little  holiday  at  Paris.  Then, 
after  recurring  to  his  own  old  notion  of  having 
some  slight  idea  of  going  to  settle  in  Australia, 
only  he  could  not  do  it  until  he  should  have 
finished  Little  Dorrit,  he  rvent  on  to  say  that 
perhaps  Macready,  if  he  could  get  into  harness 
again,  would  not  be  the  worse  for  some  such 
troubles  as  were  worrying  himself.  “ It  fills  me 
with  pity  to  think  of  him  away  in  that  lonely 
Sherborne  place.  I have  always  felt  of  myself 
that  I must,  please  God,  die  in  harness,  but  I 
have  never  felt  it  more  strongly  than  in  looking 
at,  and  thinking  of,  him.  However  strange  it  is 
to  be  never  at  rest,  and  never  satisfied,  and  ever 
trying  after  something  that  is  never  reached,  and 
to  be  always  laden  with  plot  and  plan  and  care 
and  w'orry,  how  clear  it  is  that  it  must  be,  and 
that  one  is  driven  by  an  irresistible  might  until 
the  journey  is  worked  out  ! It  is  much  better 
to  go  on  and  fret,  than  to  stop  and  fret.  As  to 
repose— for  some  men  there’s  no  such  thing  in 
this  life.  The  foregoing  has  the  appearance  of 
a small  sermon;  but  it  is  so  often  in  my  head  in 
these  days  that  it  cannot  help  coming  out.  The 
old  days — the  old  days  ! Shall  I ever,  I won- 
der, get  the  frame  of  mind  back  as  it  used  to  be 
then  ? Something  of  it  perhaps — but  never 
quite  as  it  used  to  be.  I find  that  the  skeleton 
in  my  domestic  closet  is  becoming  a pretty 
big  one.” 

It  would  be  unjust  and  uncandid  not  to  admit 
that  these  and  other  similar  passages  in  the 
letters  that  extended  over  the  years  while  he 
lived  abroad,  had  served  in  some  degree  as  a 
preparation  for  what  came  after  his  return  to 
England  in  the  following  year.  It  came  with  a 
great  shock  nevertheless  ; because  it  told  plainly 
what  before  had  never  been  avowed,  bat  only 


hinted  at  more  or  less  obscurely.  The  opening 
reference  is  to  the  reply  which  had  been  made 
to  a previous  expression  of  his  wish  for  some 
confidences  as  in  the  old  time.  I give  only 
what  is  strictly  necessary  to  account  for  what 
followed,  and  even  this  with  deep  reluctance. 
“Your  letter  of  yesterday  was  so  kind  and 
hearty,  and  sounded  so  gently  the  many  chords 
we  have  touched  together,  that  I cannot  leave 
it  unanswered,  though  I have  not  much  (to  any 
purpose)  to  sa3^  My  reference  to  ‘ confidences’ 
was  merely  to  the  relief  of  saying  a word  of 
what  has  long  been  pent  up  in  my  mind.  Poor 
Catherine  and  I are  not  made  for  each  other, 
and  there  is  no  help  for  it.  It  is  not  only  that 
she  makes  me  uneasy  and  unhappy,  but  that  I 
make  her  so  too — and  much  more  so.  She  is 
exactly  what  you  knorv,  in  the  way  of  being 
amiable  and  complying ; but  we  are  strangely 
ill-assorted  for  the  bond  there  is  between  us. 
God  knows  she  would  have  been  a thousand 
times  happier  if  she  had  married  another  kind 
of  man,  and  that  her  avoidance  of  this  destiny 
would  have  been  at  least  equally  good  for  us 
both.  I am  often  cut  to  the  heart  by  thinking 
what  a pity  it  is,  for  her  own  sake,  that  I ever 
fell  in  her  way ; and  if  I were  sick  or  disabled 
to-morrow,  I know  how  sorry  she  would  be,  and 
how  deeply  grieved  myself,  to  think  how  we 
had  lost  each  other.  But  exactly  the  same  in- 
compatibility would  arise,  the  moment  I was 
well  again  ; and  nothing  on  earth  could  make 
her  understand  me,  or  suit  us  to  each  other. 
Her  temperament  will  not  go  with  mine.  It 
mattered  not  so  much  when  we  had  only  our- 
selves to  consider,  but  reasons  have  been  grow- 
ing since  which  make  it  all  but  hopeless  that  we 
should  even  try  to  struggle  on.  What  is  now 
befalling  me  I have  seen  steadily  coming  ever 
since  the  days  you  remember  when  Mary  was 
born  ; and  I know  too  well  that  you  cannot,  and 
no  one  can,  help  me.  Why  I have  even  written 
I hardly  know  ; but  it  is  a miserable  sort  of  com- 
fort that  you  should  be  clearly  aware  how  mat- 
ters stand.  The  mere  mention  of  the  fact, 
without  any  complaint  or  blame  of  any  sort,  is  a 
relief  to  my  present  state  of  spirits — and  I can 
get  this  only  from  you,  because  I can  speak  of 
it  to  no  one  else.”  In  the  same  tone  was  his 
rejoinder  to  my  reply.  “ To  the  most  part  of 
what  you  say — Amen  ! You  are  not  so  tolerant 
as  perhaps  you  might  be  of  the  wayward  and 
unsettled  feeling  which  is  part  (I  suppose)  of 
the  tenure  on  which  one  holds  an  imaginative 
life,  and  which  I have,  as  you  ought  to  know 
well,  often  kept  down  by  riding  over  it  like  a 
dragoon — but  let  that  go  by.  I make  no  maud- 


WHAT  HAPPENED  AT  THIS  TIME. 


325 


j Hn  complaint.  I agree  with  you  as  to  the  very 

' possible  incidents,  even  not  less  bearable  than 

1 mine,  that  might  and  must  often  occur  to  the 
married  condition  when  it  is  entered  into  very 
I young.  I am  always  deeply  sensible  of  the 
wonderful  exercise  I have  of  life  and  its  highest 
■sensations,  and  have  said  to  myself  for  years, 

, and  have  honestly  and  truly  felt.  This  is  the 

I drawback  to  such  a career,  and  is  not  to  be 

complained  of.  I say  it  and  feel  it  now,  as 
I strongly  as  ever  I did ; and,  as  I told  you  in  my 
I last,  I do  not  with  that  view  put  all  this  forward. 
But  the  years  have  not  made  it  easier  to  bear 
for  either  of  us  ; and,  for  her  sake  as  well  as 
i mine,  the  wish  will  force  itself  upon  me  that 

j something  might  be  done.  I know  too  well  it 

I is  impossible.  There  is  the  fact,  and  that  is  all 

, -one  can  say.  Nor  are  you  to  suppose  that  I 

1 disguise  from  myself  what  might  be  urged  on 
■ the  other  side.  1 claim  no  immunity  from 
! blame.  There  is  plenty  of  fault  on  my  side,  I 
; dare  say,  in  the  way  of  a thousand  uncertainties, 
caprices,  and  difficulties  of  disposition  ; but  only 
i one  thing  wilt  alter  all  that,  and  that  is,  the  end 
I which  alters  everything.” 

! It  will  not  seem  to  most  people  that  there 
i was  anything  here  which  in  happier  circum- 
I stances  might  not  have  been  susceptible  of  con- 
I siderate  adjustment ; but  all  the  circumstances 
j were  unfavourable,  and  the  moderate  middle 
I course  which  the  admissions  in  that  letter  might 
I ' wisely  have  prompted  and  wholly  justified,  was 
unfortunately  not  taken.  Compare  what  before 
I was  said  of  his  temperament,  with  what  is  there 
I said  by  himself  of  its  defects,  and  the  explana- 
1 tion  will  not  be  difficult.  Every  counteracting 
influence  against  the  one  idea  which  now  pre- 
dominated over  him  had  been  so  weakened  as 
to  be  almost  powerless.  His  elder  children 
were  no  longer  children  ; his  books  had  lost  for 
the  time  the  importance  they  formerly  had  over 
every  other  consideration  in  his  life ; and  he 
had  not  in  himself  the  resource  that  such  a 
I man,  judging  him  from  the  surface,  might  be 
j expected  to  have  had.  Not  his  genius  only, 
j but  his  whole  nature,  was  too  exclusively  made 
up  of  sympathy  for,  and  with,  the  real  in  its 
most  intense  form,  to  be  sufficiently  provided 
against  failure  in  the  realities  around  him. 
There  was  for  him  no  “ city  of  the  mind  ” 
against  outward  ills,  for  inner  consolation  and 
shelter.  It  was  in  and  from  the  actual  he  still 
stretched  forward  to  find  the  freedom  and  satis- 
factions of  an  ideal,  and  by  his  very  attempts  to 
escape  the  world  he  was  driven  back  into  the 
thick  of  it.  But  what  he  would  have  sought 
there,  it  supplies  to  none;  and  to  get  the  in- 
Life  of  Ch.vrles  Dickens,  22. 


finite  out  of  anything  so  finite,  has  broken  many 
a stout  heart. 

At  the  close  of  that  last  letter  from  Gadshill 
(5th  of  September)  was  this  question — “What 
do  you  think  of  my  paying  for  this  place,  by 
reviving  that  old  idea  of  some  Readings  from 
my  books.  I am  very  strongly  tempted.  Think 
of  it.”  The  reasons  against  it  had  great  force, 
and  took,  in  my  judgment,  greater  from  the 
time  at  which  it  was  again  proposed.  The  old 
ground  of  opposition  remained.  It  was  a sub- 
stitution of  lower  for  higher  aims ; a change  to 
commonplace  from  more  elevated  pursuits  ; and 
it  had  so  much  of  the  character  of  a public  ex- 
hibition for  money  as  to  raise,  in  the  question 
of  respect  for  his  calling  as  a writer,  a question 
also  of  respect  for  himself  as  a gentleman.  This 
opinion,  now  strongly  reiterated,  was  referred 
ultimately  to  two  distinguished  ladies  of  his 
acquaintance,  who  decided  against  it.  Yet  not 
without  such  momentary  misgiving  in  the  direc- 
tion of  “ the  stage,”  as  pointed  strongly  to  the 
danger,  which,  by  those  who  took  the  opposite 
view,  was  most  of  all  thought  incident  to  the 
particular  time  of  the  proposal.  It  might  be  a 
wild  exaggeration  to  fear  that  he  was  in  danger 
of  being  led  to  adopt  the  stage  as  a calling,  but 
he  was  certainly  about  to  place  himself  within 
reach  of  not  a few  of  its  drawbacks  and  disad- 
vantages. To  the  full  extent  he  perhaps  did 
not  himself  know,  how  much  his  eager  present 
wish  to  become  a public  reader  was  but  the 
outcome  of  the  restless  domestic  discontents 
of  the  last  four  years ; and  that  to  indulge  it, 
and  the  unsettled  habits  inseparable  from  it,  was 
to  abandon  every  hope  of  resettling  his  disor- 
dered home.  There  is  nothing,  in  its  applica- 
tion to  so  divine  a genius  as  Shakespeare,  more 
affecting  than  his  expressed  dislike  to  a profes- 
sion, which,  in  the  jealous  self-watchfulness  of 
his  noble  nature,  he  feared  might  hurt  his  mind. 
The  long  subsequent  line  of  actors,  admirable 
in  private  as  in  public  life,  and  all  the  gentle 
and  generous  associations  of  the  histrionic  art, 
have  not  weakened  the  testimony  of  its  greatest 
name  against  its  less  favourable  influences ; 
against  the  laxity  of  habits  it  may  encourage ; 
and  its  public  manners,  bred  of  public  means, 
not  always  compatible  with  home  felicities  and 
duties.  But,  freely  open  as  Dickens  was  to 
counsel  in  regard  of  his  books,  he  was,  for  rea- 
sons formerly  stated,  less  accessible  to  it  on 
points  of  personal  conduct ; and  when  he  had 
neither  self-distrust  nor  self-denial  to  hold  him 
back,  he  would  push  persistently  forward  to 
whatever  object  he  had  in  view. 

An  occurrence  of  the  time  hastened  the  deci- 

430 


326 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICICENS. 


sion  in  this  case.  An  enterprise  had  been  set 
on  foot  for  establishment  of  a hospital  for  sick 
children ; a large  old-fashioned  mansion  in 
Great  Ormond-street,  with  spacious  garden,  had 
been  fitted  up  with  more  than  thirty  beds; 
j during  the  four  or  five  years  of  its  existence, 
j outdoor  and  indoor  relief  had  been  afforded  by 
it  to  nearly  fifty  thousand  children,  of  whom 
thirty  thousand  were  under  five  years  of  age; 
but,  want  of  funds  having  threatened  to  arrest 
the  merciful  work,  it  was  resolved  to  try  a pub- 
lic dinner  by  way  of  charitable  appeal,  and  for 
president  the  happy  choice  was  made  of  one 
who  had  enchanted  everybody  with  the  joys 
and  sorrows  of  little  children.  Dickens  threw 
himself  into  the  service  heart  and  soul.  There 
was  a simple  pathos  in  his  address  from  the 
chair  quite  startling  in  its  effect  at  such  a meet- 
ing ; and  he  probably  never  moved  any  audi- 
ence so  much  as  by  the  strong  personal  feeling 
with  which  he  referred  to  the  sacrifices  made 
for  the  Hospital  by  the  very  poor  themselves  : 
from  whom  a subscription  of  fifty  pounds,  con- 
tributed in  single  pennies,  had  come  to  the 
treasurer  during  almost  every  year  it  had  been 
open.  The  whole  speech,  indeed,  is  the  best 
of  the  kind  spoken  by  him  ; and  two  little 
pictures  from  it,  one  of  the  misery  he  had  wit- 
nessed, the  other  of  the  remedy  he  had  found, 
should  not  be  absent  from  the  picture  of  his 
own  life. 

“ Some  years  ago,  being  in  Scotland,  I went 
with  one  of  the  most  humane  members  of  the 
most  humane  of  professions,  on  a morning  tour 
among  some  of  the  worst  lodged  inhabitants  of 
the  old  town  of  Edinburgh.  In  the  closes  and 
wynds  of  that  picturesque  place  (I  am  sorry  to 
remind  you  what  fast  friends  picturesqueness 
and  typhus  often  are),  we  saw  more  poverty 
and  sickness  in  an  hour  than  many  people 
would  believe  in,  in  a life.  Our  way  lay  from 
: one  to  another  of  the  most  wretched  dwellings, 

] reeking  with  horrible  odours  ; shut  out  from  the 
' sky  and  from  the  air,  mere  pits  and  dens.  In 
a room  in  one  of  these  places,  where  there  was 
an  empty  porridge-pot  on  the  cold  hearth,  a 
ragged  woman  and  some  ragged  children 
crouching  on  the  bare  ground  near  it, — and,  I 
remember  as  I speak,  where  the  very  light,  re- 
fracted from  a high  damp-stained  w'all  outside, 
came  in  trembling,  as  if  the  fever  which  had 
shaken  everything  else  had  shaken  even  it,^ — • 
there  lay,  in  an  old  egg-box  which  the  mother 
had  begged  from  a sliop,  a little,  feeble,  wan, 
sick  child.  With  his  little  wasted  face,  and  his 
little  hot  worn  hands  folded  over  his  breast,  and 
liis  little  bright  attentive  eyes,  I can  see  him 


now,  as  I have  seen  him  for  several  years,  look- 
ing steadily  at  us.  There  he  lay  in  his  small 
frail  box,  which  was  not  at  all  a bad  emblem  of 
the  small  body  from  which  he  was  slowly  part- 
ing— there  he  lay,  quite  quiet,  quite  patient, 
saying  never  a word.  He  seldom  cried,  the 
mother  said ; he  seldom  complained  ; ‘ he  lay 
there,  seemin’  to  woonder  what  it  was  a’  aboot.’ 
God  knows,  I thought,  as  I stood  looking  at 

him,  he  had  his  reasons  for  wondering 

Many  a poor  child,  sick  and  neglected,  I have 
seen  since  that  time  in  London ; many  have  I 
also  seen  most  affectionately  tended,  in  un- 
wholesome houses  and  hard  circumstances, 
where  recovery  was  impossible  : but  at  all  such 
times  I have  seen  my  little  drooping  friend  in 
his  egg-box,  and  he  has  always  addressed  his 
dumb  wonder  to  me  what  it  meant,  and  why,  in 
the  name  of  a gracious  God,  such  things  should 
be!  ...  . But,  ladies  and  gentlemen,”  Dickens 
added,  “ such  things  need  not  be,  and  will  not 
be,  if  this  company,  which  is  a drop  of  the  life- 
blood of  the  great  compassionate  public  heart, 
will  only  accept  the  means  of  rescue  and  pre- 
vention which  it  is  mine  to  offer.  Within  a 
quarter  of  a mile  of  this  place  where  I speak, 
stands  a once  courtly  old  house,  where  bloom- 
ing children  were  born,  and  grew  up  to  be  men 
and  women,  and  married,  and  brought  their  own 
blooming  children  back  to  patter  up  the  old  oak 
staircase  which  stood  but  the  other  day,  'and  to 
wonder  at  the  old  oak  carvings  on  the  chimney- 
pieces.  In  the  airy  wards  into  which  the  old 
state  drawing-rooms  and  family  bedchambers 
of  that  house  are  now  converted,  are  lodged 
such  small  patients  that  the  attendant  nurses 
look  like  reclaimed  giantesses,  and  the  kind 
medical  practitioner  like  an  amiable  Ghristian 
ogre.  Grouped  about  the  little  low  tables  in 
the  centre  of  the  rooms,  are  such  tiny  conva- 
lescents that  they  seem  to  be  playing  at  having 
been  ill.  On  the  doll’s  beds  are  such  diminu- 
tive creatures  that  each  poor  sufferer  is  supplied 
with  its  tray  of  toys ; and,  looking  round,  you 
may  see  how  the  little  tired  flushed  cheek  has 
toppled  over  half  the  brute  creation  on  its  way 
into  the  ark ; or  how  one  little  dimpled  arm  has 
mowed  down  (as  I saw  myself)  the  whole  tin 
soldiery  of  Europe.  On  the  walls  of  these 
rooms  are  graceful,  pleasant,  bright,  childish 
pictures.  At  the  beds’  heads,  hang  representa- 
tions of  the  figure  which  is  the  universal  embodi- 
ment of  all  mercy  and  compassion,  the  figure  ot 
Him  who  was  once  a child  Himself,  and  a poor 
one.  But  alas ! reckoning  iq)  the  number  ol 
beds  that  are  there,  the  visitor  to  this  Child’s 
Hospital  will  find  himself  perforce  obliged  to 


WHAT  HAPPENED  AT  THIS  TIME. 


327 


stop  at  very  litt’e  over  thirty ; and  will  learn, 
with  sorrow  and  surprise,  that  even  that  small 
number,  so  forlornly,  so  miserably  diminutive 
compared  with  this  vast  London,  cannot  pos- 
sibly be  maintained  unless  the  Hospital  be 
made  better  known.  I limit  myself  to  saying 
better  known,  because  I will  not  believe  that  in 
a Christian  community  of  fathers  and  mothers, 
and  brothers  and  sisters,  it  can  fail,  being  better 
known,  to  be  well  and  richly  endowed.”  It 
was  a brave  and  true  prediction.  The  Child’s 
Hospital  has  never  since  known  want.  That 
night  alone  added  greatly  more  than  three 
thousand  pounds  to  its  funds,  and  Dickens  put 
the  crown  to  his  good  work  by  reading  on  its 
behalf,  shortly  afterwards,  his  Christmas  Carol ; 
when  the  sum  realized,  and  the  urgent  demand 
that  followed  for  a repetition  of  the  pleasure 
given  by  the  reading,  bore  down  farther  oppo- 
sition to  the  project  of  his  engaging  publicly  in 
such  readings  for  himself. 

The  Child’s  Hospital  night  was  the  9th  of 
February,  its  Reading  was  appointed  for  the 
15th  of  April,  and,  nearly  a month  before,  re- 
newed efforts  at  remonstrance  had  been  made. 
“Your  view  of  the  reading  matter,”  Dickens  re- 
plied, “ I still  think  is  unconsciously  taken  from 
your  own  particular  point.  You  don’t  seem  to 
me  to  get  out  of  yourself  in  considering  it.  A 
word  more  upon  it.  You  are  not  to  think  I 
have  made  up  my  mind.  If  I had,  why  should 
I not  say  so?  I find  very  great  difficulty  in 
doing  so,  because  of  what  you  urge,  because  I 
know  the  question  to  be  a balance  of  doubts, 
and  because  I most  honestly  feel  in  my  inner- 
most heart,  in  this  matter  (as  in  all  others  for 
years  and  years),  the  honour  of  the  calling  by 
which  I have  always  stood  most  conscientiously. 
But  do  you  quite  consider  that  the  public  exhi- 
bition of  oneself  takes  place  equally,  whosoever 
may  get  the  money  ? And  have  you  any  idea  that 
at  this  moment — this  very  time — half  the  public 
at  least  supposes  me  to  be  paid  ? My  dear  F.,  out  of 
the  twenty  or  five-and-twenty  letters  a week  that 
I get  about  Readings,  twenty  will  ask  at  what 
price,  or  on  what  terms,  it  can  be  done.  The 
only  exceptions,  in  truth,  are  when  the  corre- 
spondent is  a clergyman,  or  a banker,  or  the 
member  for  the  place  in  question.  Why,  at 
this  very  time  half  Scotland  believes  that  I am 
paid  for  going  to  Edinburgh  ! — Here  is  Greenock 
writes  to  me,  and  asks  could  it  be  done  for  a 
hundred  pounds?  There  is  Aberdeen  writes, 
and  states  the  capacity  of  its  hall,  and  says, 
though  far  less  profitable  than  the  very  large  hall 
in  Edinburgh,  is  it  not  enough  to  come  on  for  ? 
W.  answers  such  letters  continually.  ( — At  this 


place  enter  Beale.  He  called  here  yesterday 
morning,  and  then  wrote  to  ask  if  I would  see 
him  to-day.  I replied  ‘ Yes,’  so  here  he  came 
in.  With  long  preface  called  to  know  whether 
it  was  possible  to  arrange  anything  in  the  way 
of  readings  for  this  autumn — say  six  months. 
Large  capital  at  command.  Could  produce 
partners,  in  such  an  enterprise,  also  with  large 
capital.  Represented  such.  Returns  would  be 
enormous.  Would  I name  a sum  ? a minimum 
sum  that  I required  to  have,  in  any  case  ? 
Would  I look  at  it  as  a Eortune,  and  in  no 
other  point  of  view  ? I shook  my  head,  and 
said,  my  tongue  was  tied  on  the  subject  for  the 
present;  I might  be  more  communicative  at 
another  time.  Exit  Beale  in  confusion  and  dis- 
appointment.)— You  will  be  happy  to  hear  that 
at  one  on  Eriday,  the  Lord  Provost,  Dean  of 
Guild,  Magistrates,  and  Council  of  the  ancient 
city  of  Edinburgh  will  wait  (in  procession)  on 
their  brother  freeman,  at  the  Music  Hall,  to 
give  him  hospitable  welcome.  Their  brother 
freeman  has  been  cursing  their  stars  and  his 
own,  ever  since  the  receipt  of  solemn  notifica- 
tion to  this  effect.”  But  very  grateful,  when  it 
came,  was  the  enthusiasm  of  the  greeting,  and 
welcome  the  gift  of  the  silver  wassail-bowl  which 
followed  the  reading  of  the  Carol.  “ I had  no 
opportunity  of  asking  any  one’s  advice  in  Edin- 
burgh,” he  wrote  on  his  return.  “ The  crowd 
was  too  enormous,  and  the  excitement  in  it 
much  too  great.  But  my  determination  is  all 
but  taken.  I must  do  something,  or  I shall  wear 
my  heart  away.  I can  see  no  better  thing  to  do 
that  is  half  so  hopeful  in  itself,  or  half  so  well 
suited  to  my  restless  state.” 

What  is  pointed  at  in  those  last  words  had 
been  taken  as  a ground  of  objection,  and  thus 
he  turned  it  into  an  argument  the  other  way. 
During  all  these  months  many  sorrowful  misun- 
derstandings had  continued  in  his  home,  and 
the  relief  sought  from  the  misery  had  but  the 
effect  of  making  desperate  any  hope  of  a better 
understanding.  “ It  becomes  necessary,”  he 
wrote  at  the  end  of  March,  “ with  a view  to  the 
arrangements  that  would  have  to  be  begun  next 
month  if  I decided  on  the  Readings,  to  consider 
and  settle  the  question  of  the  Plunge.  Quite 
dismiss  from  your  mind  any  reference  whatever 
to  present  circumstances  at  home.  Nothing 
can  put  them  right,  until  we  are  all  dead  and 
buried  and  risen.  It  is  not,  with  me,  a matter 
of  will,  or  trial,  or  sufferance,  or  good  humour, 
or  making  the  best  of  it,  or  making  the  worst  of 
it,  any  longer.  It  is  all  despairingly  over.  Have 
no  lingering  hope  of,  or  for,  me  in  this  associa- 
tion. A dismal  failure  has  to  be  borne,  and 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


328 


there  an  end.  Will  you  then  try  to  think  of 
this  reading  project  (as  I do)  apart  from  all 
personal  likings  and  dislikings,  and  solely  with 
a view  to  its  effect  on  that  particular  relation 
(personally  affectionate  and  like  no  other  man’s) 
which  subsists  between  me  and  the  public  ? I 
want  your  most  careful  consideration.  If  you 
would  like,  when  you  have  gone  over  it  in  your 
mind,  to  discuss  the  matter  with  me  and  Arthur 
Smith  (who  would  manage  the  whole  of  the 
Business,  which  I should  never  touch) ; we  will 
make  an  appointment.  But  I ought  to  add  that 
Arthur  Smith  plainly  says,  ‘ Of  the  immense  re- 
turn in  money,  I have  no  doubt.  Of  the  Dash 
into  the  new  position,  however,  I am  not  so 
good  a judge.’  I enclose  you  a rough  note  of 
my  project,  as  it  stands  in  my  mind.” 

Mr.  Arthur  Smith,  a man  possessed  of  many 
qualities  that  justified  the  confidence  Dickens 
placed  in  him,  might  not  have  been  a good 
judge  of  the  “ Dash”  into  the  new  position,  but 
no  man  knew  better  every  disadvantage  incident 
to  it,  or  was  less  likely  to  be  disconcerted  by 
any.  His  exact  fitness  to  manage  the  scheme 
successfully,  made  him  an  unsafe  councillor  re- 
specting it.  Within  a week  from  this  time  the 
reading  for  the  Charity  was  to  be  given.  “They 
have  let,”  Dickens  wrote  on  the  9th  of  April, 
“ five  hundred  stalls  for  the  Hospital  night ; and 
as  people  come  every  day  for  more,  and  it  is 
out  of  the  question  to  make  more,  they  cannot 
be  restrained  at  St.  Martin’s  Hall  from  taking 
down  names  for  other  Readings.”  This  closed 
the  attempt  at  farther  objection.  Exactly  a fort- 
night after  the  reading  for  the  children’s  hos- 
pital, on  Thursday  the  29th  April,  came  the  first 
public  reading  for  his  own  benefit ; and  before 
the  next  month  was  over,  this  launch  into  a new 
life  had  been  followed  by  a change  in  his  old 
home.  Thenceforward  he  and  his  wife  lived 
apart.  The  eldest  son  went  with  his  mother, 
Dickens  at  once  giving  effect  to  her  expressed 
wish  in  this  respect ; and  the  other  children  re- 
mained with  himself,  their  intercourse  with  Mrs. 
Dickens  being  left  entirely  to  themselves.  It 
was  thus  far  an  arrangement  of  a strictly  private 
nature,  and  no  decent  person  could  have  had 
excuse  for  regarding  it  in  any  other  light,  if 
iniblic  attention  had  not  been  unexpectedly  in- 
vited to  it  by  a printed  statement  in  Household 
J Fords.  Dickens  was  stung  into  this  by  some 
miserable  gossip  at  which  in  ordinary  circum- 
stances no  man  would  more  determinedly  have 
been  silent ; but  he  had  now  publicly  to  show 
himself,  at  stated  times,  as  a public  entertainer, 
and  this,  with  his  name  even  so  aspersed,  he 
found  to  be  impossible.  All  he  would  concede 


to  my  strenuous  resistance  against  such  a publi- 
cation, was  an  offer  to  suppress  it,  if,  upon 
reference  to  the  opinion  of  a certain  distin- 
guished man  (still  living),  that  opinion  should 
prove  to  be  in  agreement  with  mine.  Unhap- 
jrily  it  fell  in  with  his  own,  and  the  publication 
went  on.  It  was  followed  by  another  state- 
ment, a letter  subscribed  with  his  name,  which 
got  into  print  without  his  sanction ; nothing 
publicly  being  known  of  it  (I  was  not  among 
those  who  had  read  it  privately)  until  it  ap- 
peared in  the  New  York  Tribime.  It  had  been 
addressed  and  given  to  Mr.  Arthur  Smith  as  an 
authority  for  correction  of  false  rumours  and 
scandals,  and  Mr.  Smith  had  given  a copy  of  it, 
with  like  intention,  to  the  Tribune  correspondent 
in  London.  Its  writer  referred  to  it  always 
afterwards  as  his  “ violated  letter.” 

The  course  taken  by  the  author  of  this  book 
at  the  time  of  these  occurrences,  will  not  be  de- 
parted from  here.  Such  illustration  of  grave 
defects  in  Dickens’s  character  as  the  passage  in 
his  life  affords,  I have  not  shrunk  from  placing 
side  by  side  with  such  excuses  in  regard  to  it 
as  he  had  unquestionable  right  to  claim  should 
be  put  forward  also.  How  far  what  remained  of 
his  story  took  tone  or  colour  from  it,  and  espe- 
cially from  the  altered  career  on  which  at  the 
same  time  he  entered,  will  thus  be  sufficiently 
explained ; and  with  anything  else  the  public 
have  nothing  to  do. 


III. 

GADSIIILL  PLACE. 

1856 — 1870. 

WAS  better  pleased  with  Gadshill 
Place  last  Saturday,”  he  wrote  to  me 
01^  the  13th  of  February 
1856,  “on  going  down  there,  even 
than  I had  prepared  myself  to  be. 
The  country,  against  every  disadvan- 
^ tage  of  season,  is  beautiful ; and  the 
house  is  so  old-fashioned,  cheerful,  and 
comfortable,  that  it  is  really  pleasant  to  look  at. 
The  good  old  Rector  now  there,  has  lived  in  it 
six  and  twenty  years,  so  I have  not  the  heart  to 
turn  him  out.  He  is  to  remain  till  Lady-Day 
next  year,  when  I shall  go  in,  please  God  ; 
make  my  alterations  \ furnish  the  house ; and 
keep  it  for  myself  that  summer.”  Returning  to 
England  through  the  Kentish  country  with  Mr. 
Wilkie  Collins  in  July,  other  advantages  occurred 


GADSHILL  PLACE.  329 


to  liim.  “ A railroad  opened  from  Rochester 
to  Maidstone,  wliich  connects  Gadshill  at  once 
with  the  whole  sea  coast,  is  certainly  an  addi- 
tion to  the  place,  and  an  enhancement  of  its 
value.  Bye  and  bye  we  shall  have  the  London, 
Chatham  and  Dover,  too  ; and  that  will  bring 
it  within  an  hour  of  Canterbury  and  an  hour 
and  a half  of  Dover.  I am  glad  to  hear  of  your 
having  been  in  the  neighbourhood.  There  is 
no  healthier  (marshes  avoided),  and  none  in  my 


eyes  more  beautiful.  One  of  these  days  I shall 
show  you  some  places  up  the  Medway  with 
•which  you  will  be  charmed.” 

The  association  with  his  youthful  fancy  that 
first  made  the  place  attractive  to  him  has  been 
told ; and  it  was  with  wonder  he  had  heard  one 
day,  from  his  friend  and  fellow  worker  at  House- 
hold Words,  Mr.  W.  H.  Wills,  that  not  only  was 
the  house  for  sale  to  which  he  had  so  often 
looked  wistfully,  but  that  the  lady  chiefly  in- 


The  Porch  at  Gadshill. 


terested  as  its  owner  had  been  long  known  and 
much  esteemed  by  himself.  Such  curious 
chances  led  Dickens  to  the  saying  he  so  fre- 
quently repeated  about  the  smallness  of  the 
world  {ante,  29) ; but  the  close  relation  often 
found  thus  existing  between  things  and  per- 
sons far  apart,  suggests  not  so  much  the  small- 
ness of  the  world  as  the  possible  importance  of 
the  least  things  done  in  it,  and  is  better  ex- 
plained by  the  grander  teaching  of  Carlyle,  that 


causes  and  effects,  connecting  every  man  and 
thing  with  every  other,  extend  through  all  space 
and  time. 

It  was  at  the  close  of  1855  the  negociation 
for  its  purchase  began.  “ They  wouldn’t,”  he 
wrote  (25th  of  November),  “take^^iyoo  for 
the  Gadshill  property,  but  ‘finally’  wanted 
^1800.  I have  finally  offered  750.  It  will 
require  an  expenditure  of  about  ;^30o  more 
before  yielding  ;^ioo  a year.”  The  usual  dis- 


33° 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


covery  of  course  awaited  him  that  this  first 
estimate  would  have  to  be  increased  threefold.  • 
“ The  changes  absolutely  necessary  ” (9th  of 
February  1856)  “will  take  a thousand  jDounds ; 
which  sum  I am  always  resolving  to  squeeze  out 
of  this,  grind  out  of  that,  and  wring  out  of  the 
other;  this,  that,  and  the  other  generally  all 
three  declining  to  come  up  to  the  scratch  for 
the  purpose.”  “ This  day,”  he  wrote  on  the 
14th  of  March,  “I  have  paid  the  purchase- 
money  for  Gadshill  Place.  After  drawing  the 
cheque  {£iT9o)  I turned  round  to  give  it  to 
Wills,  and  said,  ‘ Now  isn’t  it  an  e.xtraordinary 
thing — look  at  the  Day — Friday  ! I have  been 
nearly  drawing  it  half  a dozen  times  when  the 
lawyers  have  not  been  ready,  and  here  it  comes 
round  upon  a Friday  as  a matter  of  course.’  ” 
He  had  no  thought  at  this  time  of  reserving  the 
place  wholly  for  himself,  or  of  making  it  his  own 
residence  except  at  intervals  of  summer.  He 
looked  upon  it  as  an  investment  only.  “You 
will  hardly  know  Gadshill  again,”  he  wrote  in 
January  1858,  “I  am  improving  it  so  much — 
yet  I have  no  interest  in  the  place.”  But  con- 
tinued ownership  brought  increased  liking ; he 
took  more  and  more  interest  in  his  own  im- 
provements, which  were  just  the  kind  of  occa- 
sional occupation  and  resource  his  life  most 
wanted  in  its  next  seven  or  eight  years ; and 
any  farther  idea  of  letting  it  he  soon  abandoned 
altogether.  It  only  once  passed  out  of  his  pos- 
session thus,  for  four  months  in  1859;  in  the 
following  year,  on  the  sale  of  Tavistock  House, 
he  transferred  to  it  his  books  and  pictures  and 
choicer  furniture ; and  thenceforward,  varied 
only  by  houses  taken  from  time  to  time  for  the 
London  season,  he  made  it  his  permanent  family 
abode.  Now  and  then,  even  during  those  years, 
he  would  talk  of  selling  it;  and  on  his  final 
return  from  America,  when  he  had  sent  the  last 
of  his  sons  out  into  the  world,  he  really  might 
have  sold  it  if  he  could  then  have  found  a 
house  in  London  suitable  to  him,  and  such  as 
he  could  purchase.  But  in  this  he  failed ; 
secretly  to  his  own  satisfaction,  as  I believe ; 
and  thereupon,  in  that  last  autumn  of  his  life, 
he  projected  and  carried  out  his  most  costly 
addition  to  Gadshill.  Already  of  course  more 
money  had  been  spent  upon  it  than  his  first 
intention  in  buying  it  would  have  justified.  He 
had  so  enlarged  the  accommodation,  improved 
the  grounds  and  offices,  and  added  to  the  land, 
that,  taking  also  into  account  this  closing  out- 
lay, the  reserved  price  placed  upon  the  whole 
after  his  death  more  than  quadrupled  what  he 
had  given  in  1856,  for  the  house,  shrubbery, 
and  twenty-seven  years’  lease  of  a meadow  field. 


It  was  then  purchased,  and  is  now  inhabited, 
by  his  eldest  son. 

Its  position  has  been  described,  and  a history 
of  Rochester  published  a hundred  years  ago 
quaintly  mentions  the  principal  interest  of  the 
locality.  “ Near  the  twenty-seventh  stone  from 
London  is  Gadshill,  supposed  to  have  been  the 
scene  of  the  robbery  mentioned  by  Shakespeare 
in  his  play  of  Henry  IV. ; there  being  reason  to 
think  also  that  it  was  Sir  John  Falstaff,  of  truly 
comic  memory,  who  under  the  name  of  Old- 
castle  inhabited  Cooling  Castle,  of  which  the 
ruins  are  in  the  neighbourhood.  A small  dis- 
tance to  the  left  appears  on  an  eminence  the 
Hermitage,  the  seat  of  the  late  Sir  Francis  Head, 
Bart. ; and  close  to  the  road,  on  a small  ascent, 
is  a neat  building  lately  erected  by  Mr.  Day. 
In  descending  Strood-hill  is  a fine  prospect  of 
Strood,  Rochester,  and  Chatham,  which  three 
towns  form  a continued  street  extending  above 
two  miles  in  length.”  It  has  been  supposed  that 
“ the  neat  building  lately  erected  by  Mr.  Day  ” 
was  that  which  the  great  novelist  made  famous ; 
but  Gadshill  Place  had  no  existence  until  eight 
years  after  the  date  of  the  history.  The  good 
rector  who  so  long  lived  in  it  told  me,  in  1859, 
that  it  had  been  built  eighty  years  before  by  a 
well-known  character  in  those  parts,  one  Stevens, 
grand-father-in-law  of  Henslow*the  Cambridge 
professor  of  botany.  Stevens,  who  could  only 
with  much  difficulty  manage  to  write  his  name, 
had  begun  life  as  ostler  at  an  inn  ; had  become 
husband  to  the  landlord’s  widow ; then  a brewer; 
and  finally,  as  he  subscribed  himself  on  one 
occasion,  “ mare  ” of  Rochester.  Afterwards 
the  house  was  inhabited  by  Mr.  Lynn  (from 
some  of  the  members  of  whose  family  Dickens 
made  his  purchase) ; and,  before  the  Rev.  Mr. 
Hindle  became  its  tenant,  it  was  inhabited  by  a 
Macaroni  parson  named  Townshend.  whose 
horses  the  Prince  Regent  bought,  throwing  into 
the  bargain  a box  of  much  desired  cigars.  Al- 
together the  place  had  notable  associations  even 
apart  from  those  which  have  connected  it  with 
the  masterpieces  of  English  humour.  “ This 
House,  Gadshill  Place,  stands  on  the  summit 
of  Shakespeare’s  Gadshill,  ever  memorable  for  its 
association  with  Sir  John  Falstaff  in  his  noble 
fancy.  Euf,  my  lads,  my  lads,  lo-morrow  morn- 
iiig  by  four  o'clock,  early  at  Gadshill!  there  are  pil- 
grims going  to  Canterbury  with  rich  offerings,  and 
traders  riding  to  London  with  fat  purses ; I have 
vizards  for  you  all ; you  have  horses  for  your- 
selves." Illuminated  by  Mr.  Owen  Jones,  ami 
placed  in  a frame  on  the  first-lloor  landing,  these 
words  were  the  greeting  of  the  new  tenant  to  his 
visitors.  It  was  his  first  act  of  ownership. 


GADSIIILL  PLACE. 


All  his  improvements,  it  should  perhaps  be 
remarked,  were  not  exclusively  matters  of  choice; 
and  to  illustrate  by  his  letters  what  befell  at  the 
beginning  of  his  changes,  will  show  what  attended 
them  to  the  close.  His  earliest  difficulty  was 
very  grave.  There  was  only  one  spring  of  water 
for  gentlefolk  and  villagers,  and  from  some  of 
the  houses  or  cottages  it  was  two  miles  away. 
“We  are  still”  (6th  of  July)  “boring  for  water 
here,  at  the  rate  of  two  pounds  per  day  for  wages. 
The  men  seem  to  like  it  very  much,  and  to  be 
perfectly  comfortable.”  Another  of  his  earliest 
experiences  (5  th  of  September)  was  thus  ex- 
pressed : “ Hop-picking  is  going  on,  and  people 
sleep  in  the  garden,  and  breathe  in  at  the  key- 
hole of  the  house  door.  I have  been  amazed, 
before  this  year,  by  the  number  of  miserable  lean 
wretches,  hardly  able  to  crawl,  who  go  hop- 
picking. I find  it  is  a superstition  that  the  dust 
of  the  newly  picked  hop,  falling  freshly  into  the 
throat,  is  a cure  for  consumption.  So  the  poor 
creatures  drag  themselves  along  the  roads,  and 
sleep  under  wet  hedges,  and  get  cured  soon  and 
finally.”  Towards  the  close  of  the  same  month 
(24th  of  September)  he  wrote : “ Here  are  six 
men  perpetually  going  up  and  down  the  well  (I 
know  that  somebody  will  be  killed),  in  the  course 
of  fitting  a pump : which  is  quite  a railway 
terminus— it  is  so  iron  and  so  big.  The  process 
is  much  more  like  putting  Oxford-street  endwise, 
and  laying  gas  along  it,  than  anything  else.  By 
the  time  it  is  finished,  the  cost  of  this  water  will 
be  something  absolutely  frightful.  But  of  course 
it  proportionately  increases  the  value  of  the  pro- 
perty, and  that’s  my  only  comfort.  ....  The 
horse  has  gone  lame  from  a sprain,  the  big  dog 
has  run  a tenpenny  nail  into  one  of  his  hind  feet, 
the  bolts  have  all  flown  out  of  the  basket-carriage, 
and  the  gardener  says  all  the  fruit  trees  want  re- 
placing with  new  ones.”  Another  note  came  in 
three  days.  “ I have  discovered  that  the  seven 
miles  between  Maidstone  and  Rochester  is  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  walks  in  England.  Five 
men  have  been  looking  attentively  at  the  pump 
for  a week,  and  (I  should  hope)  may  begin  to 
fit  it  in  the  course  of  October.”  .... 

With  even  such  varying  fortune  he  effected 
other  changes.  The  exterior  remained  to  the  last 
much  as  it  was  when  he  used  as  a boy  to  see  it 
first ; a plain,  old-fashioned,  two-story,  brick-built 
country  house,  with  a bell-turret  on  the  roof,  and 
over  the  front  door  a quaint  neat  wooden  porch 
with  pillars  and  seats.  But,  among  his  additions 
and  alterations,  was  a new  drawing-room  built 
out  from  the  smaller  existing  one,  both  being 
thrown  together  ultimately  ; two  good  bedrooms 
built  on  a third-floor  at  the  back ; and  such  re- 


331 


arrangement  of  the  ground  floor  as,  besides  its 
handsome  drawing-room,  and  its  dining-room 
which  he  hung  with  pictures,  transformed  its 
bedroom  into  a study  which  he  lined  with  books 
and  sometimes  wrote  in,  and  changed  its  break- 
fast-parlour into  a retreat  fitted  up  for  smokers 
into  which  he  put  a small  billiard-table.  These 
several  rooms  opened  from  a hall  having  in  it  a 
series  of  Hogarth  prints,  until,  after  the  artist’s 
death,  Stanfield’s  noble  scenes  were  placed  there, 
when  the  Hogarths  were  moved  to  his  bedroom  ; 
and  in  this  hall,  during  his  last  absence  in 
America,  a parquet  floor  was  laid  down.  Nor 
did  he  omit  such  changes  as  might  increase  the 
comfort  of  his  servants.  He  built  entirely  new 
offices  and  stables,  and  replaced  a very  old  coach- 
house by  a capital  servants’  hall,  transforming 
the  loft  above  into  a commodious  school-room 
or  study  for  his  boys.  He  made  at  the  same 
time  an  excellent  croquet-ground  out  of  a waste 
piece  of  orchard. 

Belonging  to  the  house,  but  unfortunately 
placed  on  the  other  side  of  the  high  road,  was  a 
shrubbery,  well  wooded  though  in  desolate  con- 
dition, in  which  stood  two  magnificent  cedars ; 
and  having  obtained,  in  1859,  the  consent  of  the 
local  authorities  for  the  necessary  underground 
work,  Dickens  constructed  a passage  beneath 
the  road  from  his  front  lawn ; and  in  the  shrub- 
bery thus  rendered  accessible,  and  which  he  then 
laid  out  very  prettily,  he  placed  afterwards  a 
Swiss  chalet  presented  to  him  by  Mr.  Fechter, 
which  arrived  from  Paris  in  ninety-four  pieces 
fitting  like  the  joints  of  a puzzle,  but  which 
proved  to  be  somewhat  costly  in  setting  on  its 
legs  by  means  of  a foundation  of  brickwork.  “ It 
will  really  be  a very  pretty  thing,”  he  wrote 
(January  1865),  “ and  in  the  summer  (supposing 
it  not  to  be  blown  away  in  the  spring),  the  upper  | 
room  will  make  a charming  study.  It  is  much 
higher  than  we  supposed.”  Once  up,  it  did 
really  become  a great  resource  in  the  summer 
months,  and  much  of  Dickens’s  work  was  done 
there.  “ I have  put  five  mirrors  in  the  chalet 
where  I write,”  he  told  an  American  friend, 

“ and  they  reflect  and  refract,  in  all  kinds  of  j 
ways,  the  leaves  that  are  quivering  at  the  win- 
dows, and  the  great  fields  of  waving  corn,  and 
the  sail-dotted  river.  My  room  is  up  among 
the  branches  of  the  trees ; and  the  birds  and  the 
butterflies  fly  in  and  out,  and  the  green  branches 
shoot  in  at  the  open  windows,  and  the  lights  and 
shadows  of  the  clouds  come  and  go  with  the  rest 
of  the  company.  The  scent  of  the  flowers,  and 
indeed  of  everything  that  is  growing  for  miles 
and  miles,  is  most  delicious.”  He  used  to  make 
great  boast,  too,  not  only  of  his  crowds  of 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


singing  birds  all  day,  but  of  his  nightingales  at 
night. 

One  or  two  more  extracts  from  letters  having 
reference  to  these  changes  may  show  something 
of  the  interest  to  him  with  which  Gadshill  thus 
grew  under  his  hands.  A sun-dial  on  his  back- 
lawn  had  a bit  of  historic  interest  about  it. 
“ One  of  the  balustrades  of  the  destroyed  old 
Rochester  Bridge,”  he  wrote  to  his  daughter  in 
June  1859,  “has  been  (very  nicely)  presented 
to  me  by  the  contractors  for  the  works,  and  has 
been  duly  stone-masoned  and  set  up  on  the 
lawn  behind  the  house.  I have  ordered  a sun- 
dial for  the  top  of  it,  and  it  will  be  a very  good 
object  indeed.”  “ When  you  come  down  here 


The  Chalet. 


next  month,”  he  wrote  to  me,  “ we  have  an  idea 
that  we  shall  show  you  rather  a neat  house. 
What  terrific  adventures  have  been  in  action ; 
how  many  overladen  vans  were  knocked  up  at 
Gravesend,  and  had  to  be  dragged  out  of  Chalk- 
turnpike  in  the  dead  of  the  night  by  the  whole 
equine  power  of  this  establishment ; shall  be 
revealed  at  another  time.”  That  was  in  the 
autumn  of  i860,  when,  on  the  sale  of  his  Lon- 
don house,  its  contents  were  transferred  to  his 
country  home.  “ 1 shall  have  an  alteration  or 
two  to  show  you  at  Gadshill  that  greatly  im- 
prove the  little  property ; and  when  I get  the 
workmen  out  this  time,  I think  I’ll  leave  off.” 


October  1861  had  now  come,  when  the  new 
bedrooms  were  built ; but  in  the  same  month  of 
1863  he  announced  his  transformation  of  the 
old  coach-house.  “ I shall  have  a small  new  | 
improvement  to  show  you  at  Gads,  which  I think 
you  will  accept  as  the  crowning  ingenuity  of  the 
inimitable.”  But  of  course  it  was  not  over  yet. 

“ My  small  work  and  planting,”  he  wrote  in  the 
spring  of  1866,  “ really,  truly,  and  positively  the  i 
last,  are  nearly  at  an  end  in  these  regions,  and  | ; 
the  result  will  await  summer  inspection.”  No,  j i 
nor  even  yet.  He  afterwards  obtained,  by  ex-  ' ; 
change  of  some  land  with  the  trustees  of  Watts’s  ' i 
Charity,  the  much  coveted  meadow  at  the  back  , ! 
of  the  house  of  which  heretofore  he  had  the  j j 
lease  only ; and  he  was  then  able  to  plant  a | 
number  of  young  limes  and  chesnuts  and  other  j 
quick-growing  trees.  He  had  already  planted  | 
a row  of  limes  in  front.  He  had  no  idea,  he  i I 
would  say,  of  planting  only  for  the  benefit  of  j | 
posterity,  but  would  put  into  the  ground  what  he  J 
might  himself  enjoy  the  sight  and  shade  of.  He  ; ' 
put  them  in  two  or  three  clumps  in  the  meadow,,  j 
and  in  a belt  all  round.  ! I 

Still  there  were  “ more  last  words,”  for  the  ; 1 
limit  was  only  to  be  set  by  his  last  year  of  life,  i : 
On  abandoning  his  notion,  after  the  American  1 
readings,  of  exchanging  Gadshill  for  London,  a . 
: new  staircase  was  put  up  from  the  hall ; a par-  | 

I quet  floor  laid  on  the  first  landing  ; and  a con-  j 

1 servatory  built,  opening  into  both  drawing-room  | 

and  dining-room,  “ glass  and  iron,”  as  he  de-  1 

scribed  it,  “ brilliant  but  expensive,  with  foun-  | 

dations  as  of  an  ancient  Roman  work  of  horrible 
solidity.”  This  last  addition  had  long  been  an  | 

object  of  desire  with  him;  though  he  would  1 

hardly  even  now  have  given  himself  the  indul- 
gence but  for  the  golden  shower  from  America. 

He  saw  it  first  in  a completed  state  on  the  j 

Sunday  before  his  death,  when  his  younger  ; 

daughter  was  on  a visit  to  him.  “ Well,  Katey,’"  | 
he  said  to  her,  “ now  you  see  positively  the 
last  improvement  at  Gadshill;”  and  every  one  j 

laughed  at  the  joke  against  himself.  The  success  j 

of  the  new  conservatory  was  unquestionable.  It  I 

was  the  remark  of  all  around  him  that  he  was  [ 

certainly,  from  this  last  of  his  improvements, 
drawing  more  enjoyment  than  from  any  of  its 
predecessors,  when  the  scene  for  ever  closed. 

Of  the  course  of  his  daily  life  in  the  country 
there  is  not  much  to  be  said.  I’erhaps  there 
was  never  a man  who  changed  places  so  much 
and  habits  so  little.  He  was  always  methodical 
and  regular;  and  passed  his  lile  from  day  to 
day,  divided  for  the  most  part  between  working  , 
and  walking,  the  same  wherever  he  was.  Tlie  j 

only  exception  was  when  special  or  inirequent 


GADSIIILL  PLACE. 


333 


visitors  were  with  him.  When  such  friends  as 
Longfellow  and  his  daughters,  or  Charles  Eliot 
Norton  and  his  wife,  came,  or  when  Mr.  Eields 
brought  his  wife  and  Professor  Lowell’s  daughter, 
or  when  he  received  other  Americans  to  whom 
he, owed  a special  courtesy,  he  would  compress 
into  infinitely  few  days  an  enormous  amount  of 
sight-seeing  and  country  enjoyment,  castles, 
cathedrals,  and  fortified  lines,  lunches  and  pic- 
nics among  cherry  orchards  and  hop-gardens, 
excursions  to  Canterbury  or  Maidstone  and  their 
beautiful  neighbourhoods,  Druid-stone  and  Blue 
Bell  Hill.  “•  All  the  neighbouring  country  that 
could  be  shown  in  so  short  a time,”  he  wrote  of 
the  Longfellow  visit,  " they  saw.  I turned  out 
a couple  of  postilions  in  the  old  red  jackets  of 
the  old  red  royal  Dover  road  for  our  ride,  and 


it  was  like  a holiday  ride  in  England  fifty  ) cars 
ago.”  P'or  Lord  Lytton  he  did  the  same,  for  the 
Emerson  Tennents,  for  Mr.  Layard  and  Mr. 
Helps,  for  Lady  Molesworth  and  the  Higginses 
I (Jacob  Omnium),  and  such  other  less  frequent 
j visitors. 

I Excepting  on  such  particular  occasions  how- 
' ever,  and  not  always  even  then,  his  mornings 
were  reserved  wholly  to  himself ; and  he  would 
\ generally  preface  his  morning  work  (such  was 
I his  love  of  order  in  everything  around  him)  by 
I seeing  that  all  was  in  its  place  in  the  several 
i rooms,  visiting  also  the  dogs,  stables,  and  kitchen 
j garden,  and  closing,  unless  the  weather  was  very 
i bad  indeed,  with  a turn  or  two  round  the  meadow 
I before  settling  to  his  desk.  His  dogs  were  a 
! great  enjoyment  to  him ; and,  with  his  high  road 


House  and  Conservatory.  From  the  Meadow. 


traversed  as  frequently  as  any  in  England  by 
tramps  and  wayfarers  of  a singularly  undesirable 
description,  they  were  also  a necessity.  There 
were  always  two,  of  the  mastiff  kind,  but  latterly 
the  number  increased.  His  own  favourite  was 
Turk,  a noble  animal,  full  of  affection  and  in- 
telligence, w’hose  death  by  a railway-accident, 
shortly  after  the  Staplehurst  catastrophe,  caused 
him  great  grief.  Turk’s  sole  companion  up  to 
that  date  w'as  Linda,  puppy  of  a great  St.  Ber- 
nard brought  over  by  iMr.  Albert  Smith,  and 
growm  into  a superbly  beautiful  creature.  After 
Turk  there  w'as  an  interval  of  an  Irish  dog,  Sul- 
tan, given  by  Mr.  Percy  Fitzgerald,  a cross  be- 
tween a St.  Bernard  and  a bloodhound,  built 
and  coloured  like  a lioness  and  of  splendid  pro- 
portions, but  of  such  indomitably  aggressive 
propensities,  that,  after  breaking  his  kennel- 


chain  and  nearly  devouring  a luckless  little  sister 
of  one  of  the  servants,  he  had  to  be  killed. 
Dickens  always  protested  that  Sultan  was  a 
Fenian,  for  that  no  dog,  not  a secretly  sworn 
member  of  that  body,  w'ould  ever  have  made 
such  a point,  muzzled  as  he  was,  of  rushing  at 
and  bearing  down  Avith  fury  anything  in  scarlet 
with  the  remotest  resemblance  to  a British  uni- 
form. Sultan’s  successor  was  Don,  presented  by 
Mr.  Frederick  Lehmann,  a grand  Newfoundland 
brought  over  very  young,  who  with  Linda  be- 
came parent  to  a couple  of  Newfoundlands,  that 
were  still  gambolling  about  their  master,  huge, 
though  hardly  out  of  puppydom,  when  they  lost 
him.  He  had  given  to  one  of  them  the  name  of 
Bumble,  from  having  observed,  as  he  described 
it,  “ a peculiarly  pompous  and  overbearing  man- 
ner he  had  of  appearing  to  mount  guard  over 


334 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


the  yard  when  he  was  an  absolute  infant.”  | 
Bumble  was  often  in  scrapes.  Describing  to  | 
Mr.  Fields  a drought  in  the  summer  of  1868,  I 
when  their  poor  supply  of  ponds  and  surface  j 
wells  had  become  waterless,  he  wrote : “ I do  | 
not  let  the  great  dogs  swim  in  the  canal,  because 
the  people  have  to  drink  of  it.  But  when  they 
get  into  the  Medway,  it  is  hard  to  get  them  out 
again.  The  other  day  Bumble  (the  son,  New- 
foundland dog)  got  into  difficulties  among  some 
floating  timber,  and  became  frightened.  Don 
(the  father)  was  standing  by  me,  shaking  off  the 
wet  and  looking  on  carelessly,  when  all  of  a 


The  Study  at  Gadshill. 


sudden  he  perceived  something  amiss,  and  went 
in  with  a bound  and  brought  Bumble  out  by  the 
ear.  The  scientific  way  in  which  he  towed  him 
along  was  charming.”  The  description  of  his 
own  reception,  on  his  reappearance  after  Ame- 
rica, by  Bumble  and  his  brother,  by  the  big  and 
beautiful  Linda,  and  by  his  daughter  Mary’s 
handsome  little  Pomeranian,  may  be  added  from 
his  letters  to  the  same  correspondent.  “ The 
two  Newfoundland  dogs  coming  to  meet  me, 
with  the  usual  carriage  and  the  usual  driver,  and 
beholding  me  coming  in  my  usual  dress  out  at 
the  usual  door,  it  struck  me  that  their  recollec- 
tion of  my  having  been  absent  for  any  unusual 


time  was  at  once  cancelled.  They  behaved 
(they  are  both  young  dogs)  exactly  in  their  usual 
manner;  coming  behind  the  basket  phaeton  as 
we  trotted  along,  and  lifting  their  heads  to  have 
their  ears  pulled,  a special  attention  which  they 
receive  from  no  one  else.  But  when  I drove 
into  the  stable-yard,  Linda  (the  St.  Bernard)  was 
greatly  excited  ; weeping  profusely,  and  throwing 
herself  on  her  back  that  she  might  caress  my 
foot  with  her  great  fore-paws.  Mary’s  little  dog 
too,  Mrs.  Bouncer,  barked  in  the  greatest  agita- 
tion on  being  called  down  and  asked  by  Mary, 
‘Who  is  this?’  and  tore  round  and  round  me 
like  the  dog  in  the  Faust  outlines.”  The  father 
and  mother  and  their  two  sons,  four  formidable- 
looking  companions,  were  with  him  generally  in 
his  later  walks. 

Round  Cobham,  skirting  the  park  and  vil- 
lage, and  passing  the  Leather  Bottle  famous  in 
the  page  of  Pickwick,  was  a favourite  walk  with 
Dickens.  By  Rochester  and  the  Medway,  to 
the  Chatham  Lines,  was  another.  He  would 
turn  out  of  Rochester  High-street  through  The 
Vines  (where  some  old  buildings,  from  one  of 
which  called  Restoration-house  he  took  Satis- 
house  for  Great  Expectations,  had  a curious 
attraction  for  him),  would  pass  round  by  Fort 
Pitt,  and  coming  back  by  Frindsbury  would 
bring  himself  by  some  cross  fields  again  into  the 
high  road.  Or,  taking  the  other  side,  he  would 
walk  through  the  marshes  to  Gravesend,  return 
by  Chalk  church,  and  stop  always  to  have  greet- 
ing with  a comical  old  monk  who  for  some  in- 
comprehensible reason  sits  carved  in  stone, 
cross-legged  with  a jovial  pot,  over  the  porch  of 
that  sacred  edifice.  To  another  drearier  church- 
yard, itself  forming  part  of  the  marshes  beyond 
the  Medway,  he  often  took  friends  to  show  them 
the  dozen  small  tombstones  of  various  sizes 
adapted  to  the  respective  ages  of  a dozen  small 
children  of  one  family  which  he  made  part  of 
his  story  of  Great  Expectations,  though,  with  the 
reserves  always  necessary  in  copying  nature  not 
to  overstep  her  modesty  by  copying  too  closely, 
he  makes  the  number  that  appalled  little  Pip 
not  more  than  half  the  reality.  About  the 
whole  of  this  Cooling  churchyard,  indeed,  and 
the  neighbouring  castle  ruins,  there  was  a weird 
strangeness  that  made  it  one  of  his  attractive 
walks  in  the  late  year  or  winter,  when  from 
Higham  he  could  get  to  it  across  country  over 
the  stubble  fields  ; and,  for  a shorter  summer 
walk,  he  was  not  less  fond  of  going  round  the 
village  of  Shorne,  and  sitting  on  a hot  afternoon 
in  its  pretty  shaded  churchyard.  But,  on  the 
whole,  though  Maidstone  had  also  much  that 
attracted  him  to  its  neighbourhood,  the  Cobham 


F/JiST  PAID  READINGS. 


335 


neighbourhood  was  certainly  that  wlrich  he  had 
greatest  pleasure  in ; and  he  would  have  taken 
oftener  than  he  did  the  walk  tlirough  Cobham 
park  and  woods,  which  was  the  last  he  enjoyed 
before  life  suddenly  closed  upon  him,  but  that 
here  he  did  not  like  his  dogs  to  follow. 

Don  now  has  his  home  there  with  Lord 
Darnley,  and  Linda  lies  under  one  of  the  cedars 
at  Gadshill. 


IV. 


FIRST  PAID  READINGS. 


1858—1859. 

ICKENS  gave  his  paid  public  Read- 
ings successively,  with  not  long  in- 
tervals, at  four  several  dates ; in 
1858-59,  in  1861-63,  in  1866-67, 
and  in  1868-70;  the  first  series 
under  Mr.  Arthur  Smith’s  management, 
the  second  under  Mr.  Headland’s,  and 
the  third  and  fourth,  in  America  as  well 
as  before  and  after  it,  under  that  of  Mr.  George 
Dolby,  who,  excepting  in  America,  acted  for 
the  Messrs.  Chappell.  The  references  in  the 
present  chapter  are  to  the  first  series  only. 

It  began  with  sixteen  nights  at  St.  Martin’s 
Hall,  the  first  on  the  29th  of  April,  the  last  on 
the  22nd  of  July,  1858;  and  there  was  after- 
wards a provincial  tour  of  87  Readings,  begin- 
ning at  Clifton  on  the  2nd  of  August,  ending  at 
Brighton  on  the  13th  of  November,  and  taking 
in  Ireland  and  Scotland  as  well  as  the  principal 
English  cities  : to  which  were  added,  in  London, 
three  Christmas  readings,  three  in  January,  with 
two  in  the  following  month ; and,  in  the  pro- 
vinces in  the  month  of  October,  fourteen,  be- 
ginning at  Ipswich  and  Norwich,  taking  in 
Cambridge  and  Oxford,  and  closing  with  Bir- 
mingham and  Cheltenham.  The  series  had 
comprised  altogether  125  Readings  when  it 
ended  on  the  27th  of  October,  1859;  and 
without  the  touches  of  character  and  interest 
afforded  by  his  letters  written  while  thus  em- 
ployed, the  picture  of  the  man  would  not  be 
complete. 

Here  was  one  day’s  work  at  the  opening 
which  will  show  something  of  the  fatigue  they 
involved  even  at  their  outset.  “ On  Friday  we 
came  from  Shrewsbury  to  Chester  ; saw  all  right 
for  the  evening ; and  then  went  to  Liverpool. 
Came  back  from  Liverpool  and  read  at  Chester. 
Left  Chester  at  1 1 at  night,  after  the  reading, 
and  went  to  London.  Got  to  Tavistock  House 


at  5 A.M.  on  Saturday,  left  it  at  a quarter  past 
10  that  morning,  and  came  down  here  ” (Gads- 
hill : 15th  of  August  1858). 

The  “greatest  personal  affection  and  re- 
spect” had  greeted  him  everywhere.  Nothing 
could  have  been  “more  strongly  marked  or 
warmly  expressed ; ” and  the  readings  had 
“ gone  ” quite  wonderfully.  What  in  this  re- 
spect had  most  impressed  him,  at  the  outset  of 
his  adventures,  was  Exeter.  “ I think  they 
were  the  finest  audience  I ever  read  to ; I don’t 
think  I ever  read  in  some  respects  so  well ; and 
I never  beheld  anything  like  the  personal  affec- 
tion which  they  poured  out  upon  me  at  the  end. 
I shall  always  look  back  upon  it  with  pleasure.” 
He  often  lost  his  voice  in  these  early  days,  hav- 
ing still  to  acquire  the  art  of  husbanding  it ; and 
in  the  trial  to  recover  it  would  again  waste  its 
power.  “ I think  I sang  half  the  Irish  melodies 
to  myself  as  I walked  about,  to  test  it.” 

An  audience  of  two  thousand  three  hundred 
people  (the  largest  he  had  had)  greeted  him  at 
Liverpool  on  his  way  to  Dublin,  and,  besides 
the  tickets  sold,  more  than  two  hundred  pounds 
in  money  was  taken  at  the  doors.  This  taxed 
his  business  staff  a little.  “ They  turned  away 
hundreds,  sold  all  the  books,  rolled  on  the 
ground  of  my  room  knee-deep  in  checks,  and 
made  a perfect  pantomime  of  the  whole  thing.” 
(20th  of  August.)  He  had  to  repeat  the  reading 
thrice. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  seen  Ireland,  and 
Dublin  greatly  surprised  him  by  appearing  to 
be  so  much  larger  and  more  populous  than  he 
had  supposed.  He  found  it  to  have  altogether 
an  unexpectedly  thriving  look,  being  pretty 
nigh  as  big,  he  first  thought,  as  Paris  ; of  which 
some  places  in  it,  such  as  the  quays  on  the 
river,  reminded  him.  Half  the  first  day  he  was 
there,  he  took  to  explore  it ; walking  till  tired, 
and  then  hiring  a car.  “ Power,  dressed  for  the 
character  of  Tedy  the  Tiler,  drove  me : in  a 
suit  of  patches,  and  with  his  hat  unbrushed  for 
twenty  years.  Wonderfully  pleasant,  light,  in- 
telligent, and  careless.”  A letter  to  his  eldest 
daughter  makes  humorous  addition.  “The 
man  who  drove  our  jaunting  car  yesterday 
hadn’t  a piece  in  his  coat  as  big  as  a penny 

roll but  he  was  remarkably  intelligent 

and  agreeable,  with  something  to  say  about 
everything.  When  we  got  into  the  Phoenix 
Park,  he  looked  round  him  as  if  it  w’ere  his 
own,  and  said  ‘ That’s  a Park  sir,  av  ye  plase !’ 

I complimented  it,  and  he  said  ‘ Gintlemen  tills 
me  as  they  iv  bin,  sir,  over  Europe  and  never 
see  a Park  aqualling  ov  it.  Yander’s  the  Vice- 
regal Lodge,  sir;  in  thim  two  corners  lives  the 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


336 

two  Sicretaries,  wishing  I was  thim  sir.  There’s 
air  here,  sir,  av  yer  phase ! There’s  scenery 
here  sir ! There’s  mountains  thim  sir  ! ’ ” The 
number  of  common  people  lie  saw  in  his  drive, 
also  “ riding  about  in  cars  as  hard  as  they  could 
split,”  brought  to  his  recollection  a more  distant 
scene,  and  but  for  the  dresses  he  could  have 
thought  himself  on  the  Toledo  at  Naples. 

In  respect  of  the  number  of  his  audience,  and 
their  reception  of  him,  Dublin  was  one  of  his 
marked  successes.  He  came  to  have  some 
doubt  of  their  capacity  of  receiving  the  pathetic, 
but  of  their  quickness  as  to  the  humorous  there 
could  be  no  question,  any  more  than  of  their 
heartiness.  He  got  on  wonderfully  well  with 
the  Dublin  people ; and  the  Irish  girls  outdid 
the  American  in  one  particular.  He  wrote  to 
his  sister-in-law:  “Every  night  since  I have 
been  in  Ireland,  they  have  beguiled  my  dresser 
out  of  the  bouquet  from  my  coat ; and  yesterday 
morning',  as  I had  showered  the  leaves  from 
my  geranium  in  reading  Little  Domhey,  they 
mounted  the  platform  after  I was  gone,  and 
picked  them  all  up  as  a keepsake.”  The  Boots 
at  Morrison’s  expressed  the  general  feeling  in  a 
patriotic  point  of  view.  “ He  was  waiting  for 
me  at  the  hotel  door  last  night.  ‘ Whaat  sart  of 
ahoosesur?’  he  asked  me.  ‘Capital.’  ‘The 
Lard  be  praised  fur  the  ’onor  o’  Dooblin  ! ’ ” 
Within  the  hotel,  on  getting  up  next  morning, 
he  had  a dialogue  with  a smaller  resident,  land- 
lord’s son  he  supposed,  a little  boy  of  the  ripe 
age  of  six,  which  he  presented,  in  his  letter  to 
his  sister-in-law,  as  a colloquy  between  Old 
England  and  Young  Ireland  inadequately  re- 
ported for  want  of  the  “imitation”  it  required 
for  its  full  effect.  “ I am  sitting  on  the  sofa, 
writing,  and  find  him  sitting  beside  me. 

“ Old  England.  Holloa  old  chap. 

“ Young  Ireland.  Hal — loo  ! 

“ Old  England  (in  his  delightful  way).  What 
a nice  old  fellow  you  are.  I am  very  fond  of 
little  boys. 

Young  Ireland.  Air  yes?  Ye’r  right. 

“ Old  England.  What  do  you  learn,  old 
fellow  ? 

“ Young  Ireland  (very  intent  on  Old  Eng- 
land, and  always  childish  except  in  his  brogue). 
I lairn  wureds  of  three  sillibils — and  wureds  of 
two  sillibils — and  wureds  of  one  sillibil. 

“ Old  England  (cheerfully).  Get  out,  you 
humbug  ! You  learn  only  words  of  one  syllable. 

“ Young  Ireland  (laughs  heartily).  You  may 
say  that  it  is  mostly  wureds  of  one  sillibil. 

“ Old  England.  Can  you  write? 

“ Young  Ireland.  Not  yet.  Things  comes  by 
deegrays. 


“ Old  Engla?id.  Can  you  cipher? 

“ Young  Ireland  (very  quickly).  Whaat’i 
that  ? 

“ Old  England.  Can  you  make  figures  ? 

“ Young  Ireland.  I can  make  a nought,  which 
is  nor  asy,  being  roond. 

“ Old  England.  I say,  old  boy  ! Wasn’t  it 
you  I saw  on  Sunday  morning  in  the  hall,  in  a 
soldier’s  cap  ? You  know  ! — In  a soldier’s  cap  ? 

“ Young  Ireland  (cogitating  deeply).  Was  it 
a very  good  cap  ? 

“ Old  England.  Yes. 

“ Young  Ireland.  Did  it  fit  ankommon  ? 

“ Old  England.  Yes. 

“ Young  Ireland.  Dat  was  me  ! ” 

The  last  night  in  Dublin  was  an  extraordinary 
scene.  “ You  can  hardly  imagine  it.  All  the 
way  from  the  hotel  to  the  Rotunda  (a  mile),  I 
had  to  contend  against  the  stream  of  people 
who  were  turned  away.  When  I got  there,  they 
had  broken  the  glass  in  the  pay-boxes,  and  were 
offering  freely  for  a stall.  Half  of  my  plat- 
form had  to  be  taken  down,  and  people  heaped 
in  among  the  ruins.  You  never  saw  such  a 
scene.”  “ Ladies  stood  all  night  with  their  chins 
against  my  platform,”  he  wrote  to  his  daughter. 
“ Other  ladies  sat  all  night  upon  my  steps.  We 
turned  away  people  enough  to  make  immense 
houses  for  a week.”  But  he  would  not  return 
after  his  other  Irish  engagements.  “ I have 
positively  said  No.  The  work  is  too  hard.  It 
is  not  like  doing  it  in  one  easy  room,  and  always 
the  same  room.  With  a different  place  every 
night,  and  a different  audience  with  its  own 
peculiarity  every  night,  it  is  a tremendous  strain. 

. . . . I seem  to  be  always  either  in  a railway 
carriage  or  reading,  or  going  to  bed ; and  I get 
so  knocked  up  whenever  I have  a minute  to  re- 
member it,  that  thfen  I go  to  bed  as  a matter  of 
course.” 

Belfast  he  liked  quite  as  much  as  Dublin  in 
another  way.  “ A fine  place  with  a rough 
people  \ everything  looking  prosperous  ; the  rail- 
way ride  from  Dublin  quite  amazing  in  the  order, 
neatness,  and  cleanness  of  all  you  see ; every 
cottage  looking  as  if  it  had  been  whitewashed 
the  day  before ; and  many  with  charming  gar- 
dens, prettily  kept  with  bright  flowers.”  The 
success,  too,  was  quite  as  great.  “ Enormous 
audiences.  We  turn  away  half  the  town.  I 
think  them  a better  audience  on  the  whole  than 
Dublin;  and  the  personal  affection  is  something 
overwhelming.  I wish  you  and  the  dear  girls  ” 
(he  is  writing  to  his  sister-in-law)  “ could  have 
seen  the  people  look  at  me  in  the  street ; or 
heard  them  ask  me,  as  I hurried  to  the  hotel 
after  the  reading  last  night,  to  ‘ do  me  the 


FIRST  PAID 


honour  to  shake  liands  Misther  Dickens  and 
God  bless  3-011  sir  \ not  ounly  for  the  light  you’ve 
been  to  me  this  night,  but  for  the  light  you’ve 
been  in  mee  house  sir  (and  God  love  your 
face  !)  this  many  a year  ! ’ ” He  had  never  seen 
men  “go  in  to  cry  so  undisguisedly,”  as  they 
ilid  at  the  Belfast  Dombey  reading;  “and  as  to 
the  Boots  and  Mrs.  Gamp  it  was  just  one  roar 
with  me  and  them.  For  they  made  me  laugh 
so,  that  sometimes  I could  not  compose  my  face 
to  go  on.”  His  greatest  trial  in  this  way  how- 
ever was  a little  later  at  Harrogate — “the 
queerest  place,  with  the  strangest  people  in  it, 
leading  the  oddest  lives  of  dancing,  newspaper- 
reading, and  tables  d’hote  ” — where  he  noticed, 
at  the  same  reading,  embodiments  respectively 
of  the  tears  and  laughter  to  which  he  had  moved 
his  fellow  creatures  so  largely.  “ There  was  one 
gentleman  at  the  Little  Dombey  yesterday  morn- 
ing” (he  is  still  writing  to  his  sister-in-law)  “who 
exhibited — or  rather  concealed — the  profoundest 
grief.  After  crying  a good  deal  without  hiding 
it,  he  covered  his  face  with  both  his  hands  and 
laid  it  down  on  the  back  of  the  seat  before  him, 
and  really  shook  with  emotion.  He  was  not  in 
mourning,  but  I supposed  him  to  have  lost  some 

child  in  old  time There  was  a remarkably 

good  fellow  too,  of  thirty  or  so,  who  found  some- 
thing so  very  ludicrous  in  Toots  that  he  could 
not  compose  himself  at  all,  but  laughed  until  he 
sat  wiping  his  eyes  with  his  handkerchief ; 
and  whenever  he  felt  Toots  coming  again,  he 
began  to  laugh  and  w'ipe  his  eyes  afresh ; and 
when  Toots  came  once  more,  he  gave  a kind 
of  cry,  as  if  it  w^ere  too  much  for  him.  It 
was  uncommonly  droll,  and  made  me  laugh 
heartily.” 

At  Harrogate  he  read  twice  on  one  day  (a 
Saturday),  and  had  to  engage  a special  engine 
to  take  him  back  that  night  to  York,  which, 
having  reached  at  one  o’clock  in  the  morning, 
he  had  to  leave,  because  of  Sunday  restrictions 
on  travel,  the  same  morning  at  half-past  four,  to 
enable  him  to  fulhl  a Monday’s  reading  at  Scar- 
borough. Such  fatigues  became  matters  of 
course ; but  their  effect,  not  noted  at  the  time, 
was  grave.  Here  again  he  was  greatly  touched 
by  the  personal  greeting.  “ I was  brought  very 
near  to  what  I sometimes  dream  may  be  my 
Fame,”  he  w-rote  to  me  in  October  from  York, 
“ when  a lady  whose  face  I had  never  seen 
■stopped  me  yesterday  in  the  street,  and  said  to 
me,  Mr.  Dickens,  will  you  let  me  touch  the  hand 
that  has  filled  ?ny  house  with  many  friends!'  Of 
the  reading  he  adds,  “ I had  a most  magnificent 
assemblage,  and  might  have  filled  the  place  for 
a week I think  the  audience  possessed 


READINGS.  337 


of  a better  knowledge  of  character  than  any  1 
have  seen.  But  I recollect  Doctor  Belcombe  to 
have  told  me  long  ago  that  they  first  found  out 
Charles  Mathew-s’s  father,  and  to  the  last  un- 
derstood him  (he  used  to  say)  better  than  any 

other  people The  let  is  enormous  for 

irext  Saturday  at  Manchester,  stalls  alone  four 
hundred  ! I shall  soon  be  able  to  send  you  the 
list  of  places  to  the  15th  of  Novenrber,  the  end. 
I shall  be,  O most  heartily  glad,  when  that  time 
comes  ! But  I must  say  that  the  intelligence 
and  warmth  of  the  audiences  are  an  immense 
sustainment,  and  one  that  always  sets  me  up. 
Sometimes  before  I go  down  to  read  (especially 
when  it  is  in  the  day),  I am  so  oppressed  by 
having  to  do  it  that  I feel  perfectly  unequal  to 
the  task.  But  the  people  lift  me  out  of  this 
directly ; and  I find  that  I have  quite  forgotten 
everything  but  them  and  the  book,  in  a quarter 
of  an  hour.” 

The  reception  that  awaited  him  at  Manchester 
had  very  special  warmth  in  it,  occasioned  by  an 
adverse  tone  taken  in  the  comment  of  one  of 
the  Manchester  daily  papers  on  the  letter  which 
by  a breach  of  confidence  had  been  then  re- 
cently printed.  “ My  violated  letter  ” Dickens 
always  called  it  {ante,  328).  “When  I came  to 
Manchester  on  Saturday  I found  seven  hundred 
stalls  taken  ! When  I went  into  the  room  at 
iright  2500  people  had  paid,  and  more  were 
being  turned  away  from  every  door.  The  wel- 
come they  gave  me  was  astounding  in  its  affec- 
tionate recognition  of  the  late  trouble,  and  fairly 
for  once  unmanned  me.  I never  saw  such  a 
sight  or  heard  such  a sound.  When  they  had 
thoroughly  done  it,  they  settled  down  to  enjoy 
themselves  ; and  certainly  did  enjoy  themselves 
most  heartily  to  the  last  minute.”  Nor,  for  the 
rest  of  his  English  tour,  in  any  of  the  towns 
that  remained,  had  he  reason  to  complain  of 
any  want  of  hearty  greeting.  At  Sheffield  great 
crowds  in  excess  of  the  places  came.  At  Leeds 
the  hall  overflowed  in  half  an  hour.  At  Hull 
the  vast  concourse  had  to  be  addressed  by 
Mr.  Smith  on  the  gallery  stairs,  and  additional 
Readings  had  to  be  given,  day  and  night,  “ for 
the  people  out  of  town  and  for  the  people  in 
town.” 

The  net  profit  to  himself,  thus  far,  had  been 
upwards  of  three  hundred  pounds  a week ; but 
this  was  nothing  to  the  success  in  Scotland, 
where  his  profit  in  a week,  with  all  expenses 
paid,  was  five  hundred  pounds.  The  pleasure 
was  enhanced,  too,  by  the  presence  of  his  two 
daughters,  who  had  joined  him  over  the  Border. 
At  first  the  look  of  Edinburgh  was  not  pro- 
mising. “ We  began  with,  for  us,  a poor  room. 


THE  LIFE  OF  CLIARLES  DICKENS. 


33S 


....  But  the  effect  of  that  reading  (it  was  the 
Chimes')  was  immense ; and  on  the  next  night, 
for  Liitle  Dombcy,  we  had  a full  room.  It  is  our 
greatest  triumph  everywhere.  Next  night  (Poor 
Traveller,  Boots,  and  Gamp)  we  turned  away 
hundreds  upon  hundreds  of  people ; and  last 
night,  for  the  Carol,  in  spite  of  advertisements 
in  the  morning  that  the  tickets  were  gone,  the 
people  had  to  be  got  in  through  such  a crowd 
as  rendered  it  a work  of  the  utmost  difficulty  to 
keep  an  alley  into  the  room.  They  were  seated 
about  me  on  the  platform,  put  into  the  doorway 
of  the  waiting-room,  squeezed  into  every  con- 
ceivable place,  and  a multitude  turned  away 
once  more.  I think  I am  better  pleased  with 
what  was  done  in  Edinburgh  than  with  what 
has  been  done  anywhere,  almost.  It  was  so 
completely  taken  by  storm,  and  carried  in  spite 
of  itself.  Mary  and  Katey  have  been  infinitely 
pleased  and  interested  with  Edinburgh.  We  are 
just  going  to  sit  down  to  dinner  and  therefore 
. I cut  my  missive  short.  Travelling,  dinner, 

I reading,  and  everything  else,  come  crowding 
together  into  this  strange  life.” 

Then  came  Dundee  : “ An  odd  place,”  he 
wrote,  “ like  Wapping,  with  high  rugged  hills 
behind  it.  We  had  Uie  strangest  journey  here 
— bits  of  sea,  and  bits  of  railroad,  alternately ; 
which  carried  my  mind  back  to  travelling  in 
America.  The  room  is  an  immense  new  one, 
belonging  to  Lord  Kinnaird,  and  Lord  Panmure, 
and  some  others  of  that  sort.  It  looks  some- 
thing between  the  Crystal  Palace  and  West- 
minster Hall  (I  can’t  imagine  who  wants  it  in 
this  place),  and  has  never  been  tried  yet  for 
speaking  in.  Quite  disinterestedly  of  course,  I 
hope  it  will  succeed.”  The  people  he  thought, 
in  respect  of  taste  and  intelligence,  below  any 
other  of  his  Scotch  audiences ; but  they  woke 
up  surprisingly,  and  the  rest  of  his  Caledonian 
tour  was  a succession  of  triumphs.  “At  Aber- 
deen we  were  crammed  to  the  street  twice  in 
one  day.  At  Perth  (where  I thought  when  I 
arrived,  there  literally  could  be  nobody  to  come) 
the  gentlefolk  came  posting  in  from  thirty  miles 
round,  and  the  whole  town  came  besides,  and 
filled  an  immense  hall.  They  were  as  full  of 
perception,  fire,  and  enthusiasm  as  any  people  I 
have  seen.  At  Glasgow,  where  I read  three 
evenings  and  one  morning,  we  took  the  pro- 
digiously large  sum  of  six  hundred  pounds ! 
And  this  at  the  Manchester  prices,  which  are 
lower  than  St.  Martin’s  Hall.  As  to  the  effect 
— I wish  you  could  have  seen  them  after  Lilian 
died  in  the  Chimes,  or  when  Scrooge  woke  in 
the  Carol  and  talked  to  the  boy  outside  the 
window.  And  at  the  end  of  Dombey  yesterday 


afternoon,  in  the  cold  light  of  day,  they  all  got 
up,  after  a short  pause,  gentle  and  simple,  and 
thundered  and  waved  their  hats  with  such  as- 
tonishing heartiness  and  fondness  that,  for  the 
first  time  in  all  my  public  career,  they  took  me 
completely  off  my  legs,  and  I saw  the  whole 
eighteen  hundred  of  them  reel  to  one  side  as  if 
a shock  from  without  had  shaken  the  hall. 
Notwithstanding  which,  I must  confess  to  you, 

I am  very  anxious  to  get  to  the  end  of  my 
Readings,  and  to  be  at  home  again,  and  able 
to  sit  down  and  think  in  my  own  study.  There 
has  been  only  one  thing  quite  without  alloy. 
The  dear  girls  have  enjoyed  themselves  im- 
mensely, and  their  trip  with  me  has  been  a great 
success.” 

The  subjects  of  his  Readings  during  this  first 
circuit  were  the  Carol,  the  Chimes,  the  Trial  in 
Pickwick,  the  chapters  containing  Paul  Dombey, 
Boots  at  the  Holly  Tree  Itin,  the  Poor  Traveller 
(Captain  Doubledick),  and  Airs.  Ga7up : to 
which  he  continued  to  restrict  himself  through 
the  supplementary  nights  that  closed  in  the 
autumn  of  1859.  Of  these  the  most  successful 
in  their  uniform  effect  upon  his  audiences  were 
undoubtedly  the  Carol,  the  Pickwick  scene, 
Airs.  Gamp,  and  the  Dontbey — the  quickness, 
variety,  and  completeness  of  his  assumption  of 
character,  having  greatest  scope  in  these.  Here 
I think,  more  than  in  the  pathos  or  graver  level 
passages,  his  strength  lay  j but  this  is  entitled 
to  no  weight  other  than  as  an  individual  opinion, 
and  his  audiences  gave  him  many  reasons  for 
thinking  differently. 

The  incidents  of  the  period  covered  by  this 
chapter  that  had  any  general  interest  in  them, 
claim  to  be  mentioned  briefly.  At  the  close  of 

1857  he  presided  at  the  fourth  anniversary  of 
the  Warehousemen  and  Clerks’  Schools,  de- 
scribing and  discriminating,  with  keenest  wit 
and  kindliest  fun,  the  sort  of  schools  he  liked 
and  he  disliked.  To  the  spring  and  summer  of 

1858  belongs  the  first  collection  of  his  writings 
into  a succinct  library  form,  each  of  the  larger 
novels  occupying  two  volumes.  In  March  he 
paid  warm  public  tribute  to  Thackeray  (who  had 
been  induced  to  take  the  chair  at  the  General 
Theatrical  Eund)  as  one  for  whose  genius  he 
entertained  the  warmest  admiration,  who  did 
honour  to  literature,  and  in  whom  literature  was 
honoured.  In  May  he  presided  at  the  Artists’ 
Benevolent  Fund  dinner,  and  made  striking 
appeal  for  that  excellent  charity.  In  July  he 
took  earnest  jiart  in  the  opening  efforts  on  be- 
half of  the  Royal  Dramatic  College,  w'hich  he 
supplemented  later  by  a speech  for  the  esta- 
blishment of  schools  for  actors’  chiklren  ; in 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND  AND  UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


339 


which  he  took  occasion  to  declare  his  belief 
that  there  were  no  institutions  in  England  so 
socially  liberal  as  its  jiublic  schools,  and  that 
there  was  nowhere  in  the  country  so  complete 
an  absence  of  servility  to  mere  rank,  position, 
or  riches.  “ A boy  there,  is  always  what  his 
abilities  or  his  personal  qualities  make  him. 
We  may  differ  about  the  curriculum  and  other 
matters,  but  of  the  frank,  free,  manly,  independ- 
ent spirit  preserved  in  our  public  schools,  I 
apprehend  there  can  be  no  kind  of  question.” 
In  December  he  was  entertained  at  a public 
dinner  in  Coventry  on  the  occasion  of  receiving, 
by  way  of  thanks  for  help  rendered  to  their 
Institute,  a gold  repeater  of  special  construction 
by  the  watchmakers  of  the  town ; as  to  which 
he  kept  faithfully  his  pledge  to  the  givers,  that 
it  should  be  thenceforward  the  inseparable  com- 
panion of  his  workings  and  wanderings,  and 
reckon  off  the  future  labours  of  his  days  until  he 
should  have  done  with  the  measurement  of 
time.  Within  a day  from  this  celebration  he 
presided  at  the  Institutional  Association  of  I.an- 
cashire  and  Cheshire  in  Manchester  Free  Trade 
Hall  j gave  prizes  to  candidates  from  a hundred 
and  fourteen  local  mechanics’  institutes  affiliated 
to  the  Association  ; described  in  his  most  attrac- 
tive language  the  gallant  toiling  fellows  by  whom 
the  prizes  had  been  won ; and  ended  with  the 
monition  he  never  failed  to  couple  with  his 
eulogies  of  Knowledge,  that  it  should  follow 
the  teaching  of  the  Saviour,  and  not  satisfy 
the  understanding  merely.  “ Knowledge  has 
a very  limited  power  when  it  informs  the 
head  only ; but  when  it  informs  the  heart  as 
well,  it  has  a power  over  life  and  death,  the 
body  and  the  soul,  and  dominates  the  uni- 
verse.” 

This  too  was  the  year  when  Mr.  Frith  com- 
pleted Dickens’s  portrait  for  me,  and  it  was 
upon  the  walls  of  the  Academy  in  the  following 
spring.  “ I wish,”  said  Edwin  Landseer  as  he 
stood  before  it,  “ he  looked  less  eager  and  busy, 
and  not  so  much  out  of  himself,  or  beyond  him- 
self. I should  like  to  catch  him  asleep  and 
quiet  now  and  then.”  There  is  something  in  the 
objection,  and  he  also  would  be  envious  at 
times  of  what  he  too  surely  knew  could  never 
be  his  lot.  On  the  other  hand  who  would  will- 
ingly have  lost  the  fruits  of  an  activity  on  the 
whole  so  healthy  and  beneficent  ? 


V. 


ALL  THE  YEAR  ROUND  AND  UNCOM- 
MERCIAL TRAVELLER. 


1859—1861. 

' N the  interval  before  the  close  of 
the  first  circuit  of  readings,  painful 
personal  disputes  arising  out  of  the 
occurrences  of  the  previous  year 
were  settled  by  the  discontinuance  of 
Household  Words,  and  the  establish- 
ment in  its  place  of  All  the  Year  Rouiid. 
The  disputes  turned  upon  matters  of 
feeling  exclusively,  and  involved  no  charge  on 
either  side  that  would  render  any  detailed  refer- 
ence here  other  than  gravely  out  of  place.  The 
question  into  which  the  difference  ultimately  re- 
solved itself  was  that  of  the  respective  rights  of 
the  parties  as  proprietors  of  Household  Words; 
and  this,  upon  a bill  filed  in  Chancery,  was 
settled  by  a winding-up  order,  under  which  the 
property  was  sold.  It  was  bought  by  Dickens, 
who,  even  before  the  sale,  exactly  fulfilling  a 
previous  announcement  of  the  proposed  discon- 
tinuance of  the  existing  periodical  and  establish- 
ment of  another  in  its  place,  precisely  similar 
but  under  a different  title,  had  started  All  the 
Year  Round.  It  was  to  be  regretted  perhaps 
that  he  should  have  thought  it  necessary  to 
move  at  all,  but  he  moved  strictly  within  his 
rights. 


To  the  publishers  first  associated  with  his 
great  success  in  literature,  Messrs.  Chapman 
and  Flail,  he  now  returned  for  the  issue  of  the 
remainder  of  his  books  ; of  which  he  always  in 
future  reserved  the  copyrights,  making  each  the 
subject  of  such  arrangement  as  for  the  time 
might  seem  to  him  desirable.  In  this  he  was 
met  by  no  difficulty ; and  indeed  it  will  be  only 
proper  to  add,  that,  in  any  points  affecting  his 
relations  with  those  concerned  in  the  produc- 
tion of  his  books,  though  his  resentments  were 
easily  and  quickly  roused,  they  were  never  very 
lasting.  The  only  fair  rule  therefore  was,  in  a 
memoir  of  his  life,  to  confine  the  mention  of 
such  things  to  what  was  strictly  necessary  to 
explain  its  narrative.  This  accordingly  has 
been  done  ; and  in  the  several  disagreements  it 
has  been  necessary  to  advert  to,  I cannot  charge 
myself  with  having  in  a single  instance  over- 
stepped the  rule.  Objection  has  been  made  to 
my  revival  of  the  early  differences  with  Mr. 
Bentley.  But  silence  respecting  them  was  in- 
compatible with  what  absolutely  required  to  be 
said,  if  the  picture  of  Dickens  in  his  most  inter- 
esting time,  at  the  outset  of  his  career  in  letters, 


340 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


was  not  to  be  omitted  altogether;  and,  suppress- 
ing everything  of  mere  temper  that  gathered 
round  the  dispute,  use  was  made  of  those  letters 
only  containing  the  young  writer’s  urgent  appeal 
to  be  absolved,  rightly  or  wrongly,  from  engage- 
ments he  had  too  precipitately  entered  into. 


Wrongly,  some  might  say,  because  the  law  was 
undoubtedly  on  Mr.  Bentley’s  side  ; but  all  sub- 
sequent rellection  has  confirmed  the  view  I was 
led  strongly  to  take  at  the  time,  that  in  the  facts 
there  had  come  to  be  involved  what  the  law 
could  not  afford  to  overlook,  and  that  the  sale 


“WHENEVER  HE  FELT  TOOTS  COMING  AGAIN,  HE  HEGAN  TO  LAUGH  AND  WIPE  IIIS  EVES  AFRESH;  AND 
WHEN  TOOTS  CAME  ONCE  MORE,  HE  GAVE  A KIND  OE  CRY,  AS  IF  IT  WERE  TOO  MUCH  FOR  HIM.” 


of  brain-work  can  never  be  adjusted  by  agree- 
ment with  the  same  e.xactness  and  certainty  as 
that  of  ordinary  goods  and  chattels.  Quitting 
the  subject  once  for  all  with  this  remark,  it  is 
not  the  less  incumbent  on  me  to  say  that  there 
was  no  stage  of  the  dispute  in  which  Mr. 


Bentley,  holding  as  strongly  the  other  view, 
might  not  think  it  to  have  sufficient  justifica- 
tion ; and  certainly  in  later  years  there  was  no 
absence  of  friendly  feeling  on  the  part  of 
Dickens  to  his  old  iniblishcr.  'I'his  already  has 
been  mentioned;  and  on  the  occasion  of  Hans 


ALL  TILE  YEAR  ROUND.  341 


Andersen’s  recent  visit  to  Gadshill,  Mr.  Bentley 
was  invited  to  meet  the  celebrated  Dane.  Nor 
should  I omit  to  say,  that,  in  the  year  to  which 
this  narrative  has  now  arrived,  his  prompt  com- 
pliance with  an  intercession  made  to  him  for  a 
common  friend  pleased  Dickens  greatly. 

At  the  opening  of  1859,  bent  upon  such  a 
successor  to  Household  IVords  as  should  carry 
on  the  associations  connected  with  its  name, 
Dickens  was  deep  in  search  of  a title  to  give 
expression  to  them.  “ My  determination  to 
settle  the  title  arises  out  of  my  knowledge  that 
I shall  never  be  able  to  do  anything  for  the 
work  until  it  has  a fixed  name  ; also  out  of  my 
observation  that  the  same  odd  feeling  affects 
everybody  else.”  He  had  proposed  to  himself 
a title  that,  as  in  Household  Words,  might  be 
capable  of  illustration  by  a line  from  Shake- 
speare ; and  alighting  upon  that  wherein  poor 
Henry  the  Sixth  is  fain  to  solace  his  captivity 
by  the  fancy,  that,  like  birds  encaged  he  might 
soothe  himself  for  loss  of  liberty  “ at  last  by 
notes  of  household  harmony,”  he  for  the  time 
forgot  that  this  might  hardly  be  accepted  as  a 
happy  comment  on  the  occurrences  out  of 
which  the  supposed  necessity  had  arisen  of 
replacing  the  old  by  a new  household  friend. 
“ Don’t  you  think,”  he  wrote  on  the  24th  of 
January,  “ this  is  a good  name  and  quotation  ? 
I have  been  quite  delighted  to  get  hold  of  it  for 
our  title. 

“ Household  Harmony. 

‘ At  last  by  notes  of  Household  Harmony.’ 

Shakespeare." 

He  was  at  first  reluctant  even  to  admit  the 
objection  when  stated  to  him.  “ I am  afraid 
we  must  not  be  too  particular  about  the  possi- 
bility of  personal  references  and  applications  : 
otherwise  it  is  manifest  that  I nover  can  write 
another  book.  I could  not  invent  a story  of 
any  sort,  it  is  quite  plain,  incapable  of  being 
twisted  into  some  such  nonsensical  shape.  It 
would  be  wholly  impossible  to  turn  one  through 
half  a dozen  chapters.”  Of  course  he  yielded, 
nevertheless  ; and  much  consideration  followed 
over  sundry  other  titles  submitted.  Reviving 
none  of  those  formerly  rejected,  here  were  a few 
of  these  now  rejected  in  their  turn.  The 
Hearth.  The  Forge.  The  Crucible.  The 
Anvil  of  the  Time.  Charles  Dickens’s 
Own.  Seasonable  Leaves.  Evergreen 
Leaves.  Home.  Home-Music.  Change. 
Time  and  Tide.  Twopence.  English  Bells. 
Weekly  Bells.  The  Rocket.  Good  Humour. 
Still  the  great  want  was  the  line  adaptable  from 
Shakespeare,  which  at  last  exultingly  he  sent  on 
Life  of  Charles  Dickens,  23. 


the  28th  of  January.  “ I am  dining  early,  before 
reading,  and  write  literally  with  my  mouth  full. 
But  I have  just  hit  upon  a name  that  I think 
really  an  admirable  one — especially  with  the 
quotation  before  it,  in  the  place  where  our  pre- 
sent H.  W.  quotation  stands." 

“ ‘ The  story  of  our  lives,  from  year  to  year.’ 

Shakespeare. 

All  the  Year  Round. 

A weekly  journal  conducted  by 
Charles  Dickens.” 

With  the  same  resolution  and  energy  other 
things  necessary  to  the  adventure  were  as 
promptly  done.  “ I have  taken  the  new  office,” 
he  wrote  from  Tavistock  House  on  the  21st 
of  February ; “ have  got  workmen  in ; have 
ordered  the  paper ; settled  with  the  printer ; 
and  am  getting  an  immense  system  of  adver- 
tising ready.  Blow  to  be  struck  on  the  12th  of 
March Meantime  I cannot  please  my- 

self with  the  opening  of  my  story  ” (the  Tale  of 
Two  Cities,  which  All  the  Year  Roicnd  was  to 
start  with),  “ and  cannot  in  the  least  settle  at  it 

or  take  to  it I wish  you  would  come 

and  look  at  what  I flatter  myself  is  a rather 
ingenious  account  to  which  I have  turned  the 
Stanfield  scenery  here.”  He  had  placed  the 
Lighthouse  scene  in  a single  frame  ; had  divided 
the  scene  of  the  Froze7i  Deep  into  two  subjects, 
a British  man-of-war  and  an  Arctic  sea,  which 
he  had  also  framed ; and  the  school-room  that 
had  been  the  theatre  was  now  hung  with  sea- 
pieces  by  a great  painter  of  the  sea.  To  believe 
them  to  have  been  but  the  amusement  of  a few 
mornings  was  difficult  indeed.  Seen  from  the 
due  distance  there  was  nothing  wanting  to  the 
most  masterly  and  elaborate  art. 

The  first  number  of  All  the  Year  Round 
appeared  on  the  30th  of  April,  and  the  result  of 
the  first  quarter’s  accounts  of  the  sale  will  tell 
everything  that  needs  to  be  said  of  a success 
that  went  on  without  intermission  to  the  close. 
“ A word  before  I go  back  to  Gadshill,”  he 
wrote  from  Tavistock  House  in  July,  “which  I 
know  you  will  be  glad  to  receive.  So  well  has 
All  the  Year  Round  gone  that  it  was  yesterday 
able  to  repay  me,  with  five  per  cent,  interest, 
all  the  money  I advanced  for  its  establishment 
(paper,  print,  &c.  all  paid,  down  to  the  last 
number),  and  yet  to  leave  a good  ^500  balance 
at  the  banker’s!”  Beside  the  opening  of  his 
Tale  of  Two  Cities  its  first  number  had  contained 
another  piece  of  his  writing,  the  “ Poor  Man 
and  his  Beer;”  as  to  which  an  interesting  note 
has  been  sent  me.  The  Rev.  T.  B.  Lawes,  of 
Rothamsted,  St.  Albans,  had  been  associated 

431 


342 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DLCLIENS. 


upon  a sanitary  commission  with  Mr.  Henry 
Austin,  Dickens’s  brother-in-law  and  counsellor 
in  regard  to  all  such  matters  in  his  own  houses, 
or  in' the  houses  of  the  poor;  and  this  connec- 
tion led  to  Dickens’s  knowledge  of  a club  that 
Mr.  Lawes  had  established  at  Rothamsted, 
which  he  became  eager  to  recommend  as  an 
example  to  other  country  neighbourhoods.  The 
club  had  been  set  on  foot  to  enable  the  agricul- 
tural labourers  of  the  parish  to  have  their  beer 
and  pipes  independent  of  the  public-house ; and 
the  description  of  it,  says  Mr.  Lawes,  “was  the 
occupation  of  a drive  between  this  place  (Roth- 
amsted) and  London,  25  miles,  Air.  Dickens 
refusing  the  offer  of  a bed,  and  saying  that  he 
could  arrange  his  ideas  on  the  journey.  In  the 
course  of  our  conversation  I mentioned  that  the 
labourers  were  very  jealous  of  the  small  trades- 
men, blacksmiths  and  others,  holding  allotment- 
gardens  ; but  that  the  latter  did  so  indirectly  by 
paying  higher  rents  to  the  labourers  for  a share. 
This  circumstance  is  not  forgotten  in  the  verses 
on  the  Blacksmith  in  the  same  number,  com- 
posed by  Mr.  Dickens  and  repeated  to  me  while 
he  was  walking  about,  and  which  close  the 
mention  of  his  gains  with  allusion  to 

‘ A share  (concealed)  in  the  poor  man’s  field. 
Which  adds  to  the  poor  man’s  store.’  ” 

It  is  pleasant  to  be  able  to  add  that  the  club 
was  still  flourishing  when  I received  Mr.  Lawes’s 
letter  on  the  i8th  of  December  1871. 

The  periodical  thus  established  was  in  all 
respects,  save  one,  so  exactly  the  counterpart  of 
what  it  replaced,  that  a mention  of  this  point 
of  difference  is  the  only  description  of  it  called 
for.  Besides  his  own  three-volume  stories  of 
The  Tale  of  7 wo  Cities  and  Great  Expectations, 
Dickens  admitted  into  it  other  stories  of  the 
same  length  by  writers  of  character  and  name, 
of  which  the  authorshi[)  was  avowed.  It  pub- 
lished tales  of  varied  merit  and  success  by  hlr. 
Ifdmund  Yates,  Mr.  Percy  Fitzgerald,  and  Mr. 
Charles  Lever.  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins  contributed 
to  it  his  IVo/nan  in  White,  Efo  Name,  and  Moon- 
stone, the  first  of  which  had  a pre-eminent  suc- 
cess; Mr.  Reade  his  LLard  Cash:  and  Lord 
Lytton  his  Strange  Story.  Conferring  about  the 
latter  Dickens  passed  a week  at  Knebworth, 
accompanied  by  his  daughter  and  sister-in-law, 
in  the  summer  of  1861,  as  soon  as  he  had  closed 
Great  Expectations ; and  there  met  Mr.  Arthur 
Helps,  with  whom  and  Lord  Orford  he  visited 
the  so-called  “ Hermit  ” near  Stevenage,  whom 
he  described  as  Mr.  Mopes  in  Toni  Tiddler  s 
Ground.  With  his  great  brother-artist  he  tho- 
roughly enjoyed  himself,  as  he  invariably  did; 


and  reported  him  as  “ in  better  health  and 
spirits  than  I have  seen  him  in,  in  all  these  years, 
— a little  weird  occasionally  regarding  magic 
and  spirits,  but  always  fair  and  frank  under  oppo- 
sition. He  was  brilliantly  talkative,  anecdotical, 
and  droll ; looked  young  and  well ; laughed 
heartily;  and  enjoyed  with  great  zest  some 
games  we  played.  In  his  artist-character  and 
talk,  he  was  full  of  interest  and  matter,  saying 
the  subtlest  and  finest  things- — but  that  he  never 
fails  in.  I enjoyed  myself  immensely,  as  w'e  all 
did.” 

In  All  the  Year  Round,  as  in  its  predecessor, 
the  tales  for  Christmas  were  of  course  continued, 
but  with  a surprisingly  increased  popularity ; 
and  Dickens  never  had  such  sale  for  any  of 
his  writings  'as  for  his  Christmas  pieces  in  the 
latter  periodical.  It  had  reached  before  he  died, 
to  nearly  three  hundred  thousand.  The  first 
was  called  the  Haunted  LLouse,  and  had  a small 
mention  of  a true  occurrence  in  his  boyhood 
which  is  not  included  in  the  bitter  record  on  a 
former  page.  “ I was  taken  home,  and  there 
was  debt  at  home  as  well  as  death,  and  we  had 
a sale  there.  My  own  little  bed  was  so  super- 
ciliously looked  upon  by  a power  unknown  to 
me  hazily  called  The  Trade,  that  a brass  coal- 
scuttle, a roasting  jack,  and  a bird  cage  were 
obliged  to  be  put  into  it  to  make  a lot  of  it,  and 
then  it  went  for  a song.  So  I heard  mentioned, 
and  I wondered  what  song,  and  thought  what 
a dismal  song  it  must  have  been  to  sing  !”  The 
other  subjects  will  have  mention  in  another 
chapter. 

His  tales  were  not  his  only  important  work  in 
All  the  Year  Liound.  The  detached  papers 
written  by  him  there  had  a character  and  com- 
pleteness derived  from  their  plan,  and  from  the 
personal  tone,  as  well  as  frequent  individual 
confessions,  by  which  their  interest  is  enhanced, 
and  which  will  always  make  them  specially 
attractive.  Their  title  expressed  a personal 
liking.  Of  all  the  societies,  charitable  or  self- 
assisting,  which  his  tact  and  eloquence  in  the 
“chair”  so  often  helped,  none  had  interested 
him  by  the  character  of  its  service  to  its  mem- 
bers, and  the  perfection  of  its  management,  so 
much  as  that  of  the  Commercial  Travellers.  His 
admiration  of  their  schools  introduced  him  to 
one  who  then  acted  as  their  treasurer,  and 
whom,  of  all  the  men  he  had  known,  I think  he 
rated  highest  for  the  union  of  business  (pialitics 
in  an  incomparable  measure  to  a nature  compre- 
hensive enough  to  deal  with  masses  of  men, 
however  dilTering  in  creed  or  opinion,  humanely 
and  justly.  He  never  aftenvards  wanted  support 
for  any  good  work  that  he  did  not  think  first  of 


UNCOMMERCIAL  TRAVELLER. 


Mr.  George  AToore,  and  appeal  was  never  made 
to  him  in  vain.  “ Integrity,  enterprise,  public 
spirit,  and  benevolence,”  he  told  the  Commer- 
cial Travellers  on  one  occasion,  “ had  their 
synonym  in  Mr.  Moore’s  name;”  and  it  was 
ajiother  form  of  the  same  liking  when  he  took 
to  himself  the  character  and  title  of  a d'raveller 
^///commercial.  “ 1 am  both  a town  traveller 
and  a country  traveller,  and  am  always  on  the 
road.  Figuratively  speaking,  I travel  for  the 
great  house  of  Human-interest  Brothers,  and 
have  rather  a large  connection  in  the  fancy  goods 
way.  Literally  speaking,  I am  always  wandering 
here  and  there  from  my  rooms  in  Covent-garden, 
I.ondon  : now  about  the  city  streets,  now  about 
the  country  by-roads  ; seeing  many  little  things, 
and  some  great  things,  which,  because  they  in- 
terest me,  I think  may  interest  others.”  In  a 
few  words,  that  was  the  plan  and  drift  of  the 
papers  which  he  began  in  i860,  and  continued 
to  write  from  time  to  time  until  the  last  autumn 
■of  his  life. 

Many  of  them,  such  as  “ Travelling  Abroad,” 
City  Churches,”  “ Dullborough,”  “ Nurses’ 
Stories  ” and  “ Birthday  Celebrations,”  have 
supplied  traits,  chiefly  of  his  younger  days,  to 
portions  of  this  memoii' ; and  parts  of  his  later 
life  receive  illustration  from  others,  such  as 
“Tramps,”  “Night  Walks,”  “Shy  Neighbour- 
hoods,” “ The  Italian  Prisoner,”  and  “ Chatham 
Dockyard.”  Indeed  hardly  any  is  without  its 
personal  interest  or  illustration.  One  may  learn 
from  them,  among  other  things,  what  kind  of 
treatment  he  resorted  to  for  the  disorder  of 
sleeplessness  from  which  he  had  often  suffered 
amid  his  late  anxieties.  Experimenting  upon  it 
in  bed,  he  found  to  be  too  slow  and  doubtful 
a process  for  him ; but  he  very  soon  defeated 
his  enemy  by  the  brisker  treatment,  of  getting 
up  directly  after  lying  down,  going  out,  and 
coming  home  tired  at  sunrise.  “ My  last  special 
feat  was  turning  out  of  bed  at  two,  after  a hard 
day  pedestrian  and  otherwise,  and  walking  thirty 
miles  into  the  country  to  breakfast.”  One  de- 
scription he  did  not  give  in  his  paper,  but  I 
recollect  his  saying  that  he  had  seldom  seen 
anything  so  striking  as  the  way  in  which  the 
wonders  of  an  equinoctial  dawn  (it  was  the  15th 
of  October  1857)  presented  themselves  dunng 
that  walk.  He  had  never  before  happened  to 
see  night  so  completely  at  odds  with  morning, 
“ which  was  which.”  Another  experience  of  his 
night  ramblings  used  to  be  given  in  vivid 
sketches  of  the  restlessness  of  a great  city,  and 
the  manner  in  which  it  also  tumbles  and  tosses 
before  it  can  get  to  sleep.  Nor  should  any  one 
curious  about  his  habits  and  ways  omit  to  ac- 


343 


company  him  with  his  Tramps  into  Gadshill 
lanes ; or  to  follow  him  into  his  shy  neighbour- 
hoods of  the  Hackney-road,  Waterloo-road, 
Spitalfields,  or  Bethnal-green.  For  delightful  ob- 
servation both  of  country  and  town,  for  the  wit 
that  finds  analogies  between  remote  and  familiar 
things,  and  for  humorous  personal  sketches  and 
experience,  these  are  perfect  of  their  kind. 

“ I have  my  eye  upon  a piece  of  Kentish 
road,  bordered  on  either  side  by  a wood,  and 
having  on  one  hand,  between  the  road-dust  and 
the  trees,  a skirting  patch  of  grass.  Wild 
flowers  grow  in  abundance  on  this  spot,  and  it 
lies  high  and  airy,  with  a distant  river  stealing 
steadily  away  to  the  ocean,  like  a man’s  life.  To 
gain  the  milestone  here,  which  the  moss,  prim- 
roses, violets,  blue-bells,  and  wild  roses  would 
soon  render  illegible  but  for  peering  travellers 
pushing  them  aside  with  their  sticks,  you  must 
come  up  a steep  hill,  come  which  way  you  may. 
So,  all  the  tramps  with  carts  or  caravans — the 
Gipsy-tramp,  the  Show-tramp,  the  Cheap  Jack 
— find  it  impossible  to  resist  the  temptations  of 
the  place ; and  all  turn  the  horse  loose  when 
they  come  to  it,  and  boil  the  pot.  Bless  the 
place,  I love  the  ashes  of  the  vagabond  fires 
that  have  scorched  its  grass  ! ” It  was  there  he 
found  Dr.  Marigold,  and  Chops  the  Dwarf,  and 
the  White-haired  Lady  with  the  pink  eyes  eating 
meat-pie  with  the  Giant.  So,  too,  in  his  Shy 
Neighbourhoods,  when  he  relates  his  expe- 
riences of  the  bad  company  that  birds  are  fond 
of,  and  of  the  effect  upon  domestic  fowls  of 
living  in  low  districts,  his  method  of  handling 
the  subject  has  all  the  charm  of  a discovery. 
“ That  anything  born  of  an  egg  and  invested 
with  wings  should  have  got  to  the  pass  that  it 
hops  contentedly  down  a ladder  into  a cellar, 
and  calls  that  going  home,  is  a circumstance  so 
amazing  as  to  leave  one  nothing  more  in  this 
connection  to  wonder  at.”  One  of  his  illustra- 
tions is  a reduced  bantam  family  in  the  Hackney- 
road  deriving  their  sole  enjoyment  from  crowd- 
ing together  in  a pawnbroker’s  side-entry ; but 
seeming  as  if  only  newly  come  down  in  the 
world,  and  always  in  a feeble  flutter  of  fear  that 
they  may  be  found  out.  He  contrasts  them 
with  others.  “ I know  a low  fellow,  originally 
of  a good  family  from  Dorking,  who  takes  his 
whole  establishment  of  wives,  in  single  file,  in 
at  the  door  of  the  Jug  Department  of  a disorderly 
tavern  near  the  Haymarket,  manoeuvres  them 
among  the  company’s  legs,  emerges  with  them 
at  the  Bottle  Entrance,  and  so  passes  his  life  : 
seldom,  in  the  season,  going  to  bed  before  two 

in  the  morning But  the  family  I am 

best  acquainted  with  reside  in  the  densest  part 


344 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


of  Bethnal-green.  Their  abstraction  from  the 
objects  among  which  they  live,  or  rather  their 
conviction  that  those  objects  have  all  come  into 
existence  in  express  subservience  to  fowls,  has 
so  enchanted  me  that  I have  made  them  the 
subject  of  many  journeys  at  divers  hours.  After 
careful  observation  of  the  two  lords  and  the  ten 
ladies  of  whom  this  family  consists,  I have  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  their  opinions  are  repre- 
sented by  the  leading  lord  and  leading  lady  ; 
the  latter,  as  I judge,  an  aged  personage,  afflicted 
with  a paucity  of  feather  and  visibility  of  quill 
that  gives  her  the  appearance  of  a bundle  of 
office  pens.  When  a railway  goods-van  that 
would  crush  an  elephant  comes  round  the  corner, 
tearing  over  these  fowls,  they  emerge  unharmed 
from  under  the  horses,  perfectly  satisfied  that 
the  whole  rush  was  a passing  property  in  the 
air,  which  may  have  left  something  to  eat  be- 
hind it.  They  look  upon  old  shoes,  wrecks  of 
kettles  and  saucepans,  and  fragments  of  bonnets, 
as  a kind  of  meteoric  discharge,  for  fowls  to  peck 

at Gaslight  comes  quite  as  natural  to 

them  as  any  other  light ; and  I have  more  than 
a suspicion  that,  in  the  minds  of  the  two  lords, 
the  early  public-house  at  the  corner  has  super- 
seded the  sun.  They  always  begin  to  crow 
when  the  public-house  shutters  begin  to  be 
taken  down,  and  they  salute  the  Potboy,  the 
instant  he  appears  to  perform  that  duty,  as  if  he 
were  Phoebus  in  person.”  For  the  truth  of  the 
personal  adventure  in  the  same  essay,  which  he 
tells  in  proof  of  a propensity  to  bad  company  in 
more  refined  members  of  the  feathered  race,  1 
am  myself  in  a position  to  vouch.  Walking  by 
a dirty  court  in  Spitalfields  one  day,  the  quick 
little  busy  intelligence  of  a goldfinch,  drawing 
water  for  himself  in  his  cage,  so  attracted  him 
that  he  bought  the  bird,  which  had  other  accom- 
plishments ; but  not  one  of  them  would  the 
little  creature  show  off  in  his  new  abode  in 
Doughty-street,  and  he  drew  no  water  but  by 
stealth  or  under  the  cloak  of  night.  “ After  an 
interval  of  futile  and  at  length  hopeless  expecta- 
tion, the  merchant  who  had  educated  him  was 
appealed  to.  The  merchant  was  a bow-legged 
character,  with  a ilat  and  cushiony  nose,  like  the 
last  new  strawberry.  He  wore  a fur  cap,  and 
shorts,  and  was  of  the  velveteen  race,  velveteeny. 
He  sent  word  that  he  would  ‘ look  round.’  He 
looked  round,  appeared  in  the  doorway  of  the 
room,  and  slightly  cockeil  up  his  evil  eye  at  the 
goldfinch.  Instantly  a raging  thirst  beset  that 
bird ; and  when  it  was  appeased,  he  still  drew 
several  unnecessary  buckets  of  water,  leaping 
about  his  perch  and  sharpening  his  bill  with 
irrepressible  satisfaction.” 


The  Uncommercial  Traveller  papers,  his  two 
serial  stories,  and  his  Christmas  tales,  were  all 
the  contributions  of  any  importance  made  by 
Dickens  to  All  the  Year  Round ; but  he  re- 
printed in  it,  on  the  completion  of  his  first  story, 
a short  tale  called  Hunted  Down,  written  for  a 
newspaper  in  America  called  the  New  York 
Ledger.  Its  subject  had  been  taken  from  the 
life  of  a notorious  criminal  already  named  {ante^ 
51),  and  its  princijxil  claim  to  notice  was  the 
price  paid  for  it.  For  a story  not  longer  than 
half  of  one  of  the  numbers  of  Chiizzlcwit  or 
Copperjield,  he  had  received  a thousand  pounds. 
It  was  one  of  the  indications  of  the  eager  desire 
which  his  entry  on  the  career  of  a public  reader 
had  aroused  in  America  to  induce  him  again  to 
visit  that  continent ; and  at  the  very  time  he 
had  this  magnificent  offer  from  the  New  York 
journal,  Mr.  Fields  of  Boston,  who  was  then  on 
a visit  to  Europe,  was  pressing  him  so  much  to 
go  that  his  resolution  was  almost  shaken.  “ I 
am  now,”  he  wrote  to  me  from  Gadshill  on  the 
9th  of  July  1859,  “getting  the  Tale  of  Two  Cities 
into  that  state  that  IF  I should  decide  to  go  to 
America  late  in  September,  I could  turn  to  at 
any  time,  and  write  on  with  great  vigour.  Mr. 
Fields  has  been  down  here  for  a day,  and  with 
the  strongest  intensity  urges  that  there  is  no 
drawback,  no  commercial  excitement  or  crisis, 
no  political  agitation  ; and  that  so  favourable 
an  opportunity,  in  all  respects,  might  not  occur 
again  for  years  and  years.  I should  be  one  of 
the  most  unhappy  of  men  if  I were  to  go,  and 
yet  I cannot  help  being  much  stirred  and  influ- 
enced by  the  golden  i>rospect  held  before  me.” 
He  yielded  nevertheless  to  other  persuasion, 
and  for  that  time  the  visit  was  not  to  be.  In' 
six  months  more  the  Civil  War  began,  and 
America  was  closed  to  any  such  enterprise  for 
nearly  five  years.  ^ 

VI. 

SECOND  SERIES  OF  READINGS. 


1861—1863. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  year  of  residence  at 
Gadshill  it  was  the  remark  of  Dickens 
that  nothing  had  gratifieil  him  so  much  as  the 
confidence  with  which  his  poorer  neighbours 
treated  him.  He  had  tested  generally  their 
worth  and  good  conduct,  and  they  hail  been 
encouraged  in  any  illness  or  trouble  to  resort 
to  him  for  help.  'I'here  was  pleasant  indica- 
tion of  the  feeling  thus  awakened,  when,  in 


SECOND  SERIES  OF  READINGS. 


345 


the  summer  of  i860,  his  younger  daughter 
Kate  was  married  to  Charles  Alston  Collins, 
brother  of  the  novelist,  and  younger  son  of 
the  painter  and  academician,  who  might  have 
found,  if  spared  to  witness  that  summer- 


morning scene,  subjects  not  unworthy  of  his 
delightful  pencil  in  many  a rustic  group  near 
Gadshill.  All  the  villagers  had  turned  out  in 
honour  of  Dickens,  and  the  carriages  could 
hardly  get  to  and  from  the  little  church  for  the 


“HE  ...  . SLIGHTLY  COCKED  UP  HIS  EVIL  EYE  AT  THE  GOLDFINCH.  INSTANTLY  A RAGING  THIRST  BESET 
THAT  BIRD;  AND  WHEN  IT  WAS  APPEASED,  HE  STILL  DREW  SEVERAL  UNNECESSARY  BUCKETS  OF 
WATER,  LEAPING  ABOUT  HIS  PERCH  AND  SHARPENING  HIS  BILL  WITH  IRREPRESSIBLE  SATISFACTION.” 


succession  of  triumphal  arches  they  had  to  pass 
through.  It  was  quite  unexpected  by  him ; 
and  when  the  feu  de  joie  of  the  blacksmith 
in  the  lane,  whose  enthusiasm  had  smuggled 
a couple  of  small  cannon  into  his  forge,  ex- 
ploded upon  him  at  the  return,  I doubt  if  the 


shyest  of  men  was  ever  so  taken  aback  at  an 
ovation. 

To  name  the  principal  persons  present  that 
day  will  indicate  the  faces  that  (with  addition 
of  Miss  Mary  Boyle,  Miss  Marguerite  Power, 
Mr.  Fechter,  Mr.  Charles  Kent,  Mr.  Edmund 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICICENS. 


346 


Yates,  Mr.  Percy  Fitzgerald,  and  members  of 
the  family  of  Mr.  Frank  Stone,  whose  sudden 
death  in  the  preceding  year  had  been  a great 
grief  to  Dickens)  were  most  /amiliar  at  Gadshill 
in  these  later  years.  Mr.  Frederic  Lehmann 
was  there  with  his  wife,  whose  sister.  Miss 
Chambers,  was  one  of  the  bridesmaids ; Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Wills  were  there,  and  Dickens’s  old 
fast  friend  Mr.  Thomas  Beard  ; the  two  nearest 
country  neighbours  with  whom  the  family  had 
become  very  intimate,  Mr.  Hulkes  and  Mr. 
Malleson,  with  their  wives,  joined  the  party; 
among  the  others  were  Henry  Chorley,  Chauncy 
Hare  Townshend,  and  Wilkie  Collins ; and,  for 
friend  special  to  the  occasion,  the  bridegroom 
had  brought  his  old  fellow-student  in  art,  Mr. 
Holman  Hunt.  Mr.  Charles  Collins  had  him- 
self been  bred  as  a painter,  for  success  in  which 
line  he  had  some  rare  gifts  ; but  inclination  and 
capacity  led  him  also  to  literature,  and,  after 
much  indecision  between  the  two  callings,  he 
took  finally  to  letters.  His  contributions  to 
AH  the  Year  Round  were  among  the  most 
charming  of  its  detached  papers,  and  two 
stories  published  independently  showed  strength 
of  wing  for  higher  flights.  But  his  health  broke 
down,  and  his  taste  was  too  fastidious  for  his 
failing  power.  It  is  possible  however  that  he 
may  live  by  two  small  books  of  description,  the 
Neau  Sentimental  Journey  and  the  Cruise  on 
Wheels,  which  have  in  them  unusual  delicacy 
and  refinement  of  humour ; and  if  those  vo- 
lumes should  make  my  readers  in  another 
generation  curious  about  the  writer,  they  will 
learn,  if  correct  reply  is  given  to  their  inquiries, 
that  no  man  disappointed  so  many  reasonable 
hopes  with  so  little  fault  or  failure  of  his  own, 
that  his  difficulty  always  was  to  please  himself, 
and  that  an  inferior  mind  would  have  been  more 
successful  in  both  the  arts  he  followed.  He 
died  in  1873  in  his  forty-fifth  year;  and  until 
then  it  was  not  known,  even  by  those  nearest  to 
him,  how  great  must  have  been  the  suffering 
which  he  had  borne,  through  many  trying  years, 
with  uncomplaining  patience. 

His  daughter’s  marriage  was  the  chief  event 
that  had  crossed  the  even  tenor  of  Dickens’s 
life  since  his  first  paid  readings  closed;  and  it 
was  followed  by  the  sale  of  Tavistock  Flouse, 
with  the  resolve  to  make  his  future  home  at 
Cadshill.  In  the  brief  interval  (29th  of  July) 
he  wrote  to  me  of  his  brother  Alfred’s  death. 
“ I was  telegraphed  for  to  Manchester  on  Friday 
night.  Arrived  there  at  a quarter  past  ten,  but 
he  had  been  dead  three  hours,  poor  fellow  ! 
He  is  to  be  buried  at  Highgate  on  Wednesday. 
I brought  the  poor  young  widow  back  with  me 


yesterday.”  All  that  this  death  involved,  the 
troubles  of  his  change  of  home,  and  some  diffi- 
culties in  working  out  his  story,  gave  him  more 
than  sufficient  occupation  till  the  following 
spring;  and  as  the  time  arrived  for  the  new 
readings,  the  change  was  a not  unwelcome 
one. 

The  first  portion  of  this  second  series  was 
planned  by  Mr.  Arthur  Smith,  but  he  only 
superintended  the  si.x  readings  in  London 
which  opened  it.  These  were  the  first  at  St. 
James’s  Hall  (St.  Martin’s  Hall  having  been 
burnt  since  the  last  readings  there),  and  were 
given  in  March  and  April  1S61.  “We  are  all 
well  here  and  flourishing,”  he  wrote  to  me  from 
Cadshill  on  the  28th  of  April.  “On  the  18th 
I finished  the  readings  as  I purposed.  We 
had  between  seventy  and  eighty  pounds  in  the 
stalls,  which,  at  four  shillings  apiece,  is  some- 
thing quite  unprecedented  in  these  times 

The  result  of  the  six  was,  that,  after  paying  a 
large  staff  of  men  and  all  other  charges,  and 
Arthur  Smith’s  ten  per  cent,  on  the  receipts, 
and  replacing  everything  destroyed  in  the  fire 
at  St.  Martin’s  Hall  (including  all  our  tickets, 
country  baggage,  cheque-boxes,  books,  and  a 
(Quantity  of  gas-fittings  and  what  not),  I got 
upwards  of  .^500.  A very  great  result.  W'e 
certainly  might  have  gone  on  through  the  sea- 
son, but  I am  heartily  glad  to  be  concentrated 
on  my  story.” 

It  had  been  part  of  his  plan  that  the  Pro- 
vincial Readings  should  not  begin  until  a cer- 
tain interval  after  the  close  of  his  story  of  Great 
Expectations.  They  were  delayed  accordingly 
until  the  28th  of  October,  from  which  date, 
when  they  opened  at  Norwich,  they  went  on 
with  the  Christmas  intervals  to  be  presently 
named  to  the  30th  of  January  1S62,  when  they 
closed  at  Chester.  Kept  within  England  and 
Scotland,  they  took  in  the  border  town  of 
Berwick,  and,  besides  the  Scotch  cities,  com- 
prised the  contrasts  and  varieties  of  Norwich 
and  Lancaster,  Bury  St.  Edmunds  and  Chelten- 
ham, Carlisle  and  Hastings,  Plymouth  and  Bir- 
mingham, Canterbury  and  Torquay,  Preston 
and  Ipswich,  Manchester  and  Brighton,  Col- 
chester and  Dover,  Newcastle  and  Cliestei*. 
They  were  followed  by  ten  readings  at  the 
St.  James’s  Hall,  between  the  13th  of  March 
and  the  27th  of  June  1862;  and  by  four  at 
Paris  in  January  1863,  given  at  the  Embassy  in  i 
aid  of  the  Britisli  Cliaritable  I'und.  The  second 
series  had  thus  in  the  number  of  the  readings 
nearly  etpialled  tlie  first,  when  it  closed  at 
London  in  June  1863  with  thirteen  readings  in 
the  Hanover  Scpiarc  Rooms ; and  it  is  exclu- 


SECOND  SERIES  OE  READINGS. 


sively  the  subject  of  such  illustrations  or  refer-  | 
dices  as  this  chapter  will  supply. 

On  Great  Expectaiions  June  i86i, 

Ihihver  Lytton,  at  Dickens’s  earnest  wish,  took 
his  place  in  All  the  Year  Round  with  the 
“Strange  Story;”  and  he  then  indulged  him- 
self in  idleness  for  a little  while.  “The  sub- 
sidence of  those  distressing  pains  in  my  face 
the  moment  I had  done  my  work,  made  me 
resolve  to  do  nothing  in  that  way  for  some  time 
if  I could  help  it.”  But  his  “ doing  nothing  ” 
was  seldom  more  than  a figure  of  speech,  and 
what  it  meant  in  this  case  was  soon  told. 

“ Every  day  for  two  or  three  hours,  I practise 
my  new  readings,  and  (except  in  my  office 
work)  do  nothing  else.  With  great  pains  I 
have  made  a continuous  narrative  out  of  Cop- 
perjield,  that  I think  will  reward  the  exertion  it 
is  likely  to  cost  me.  Unless  I am  much  mis- 
taken, it  will  be  very  valuable  in  London.  I 
have  also  done  Nicholas  Nickleby  at  the  York-  i 
shire  school,  and  hope  I have  got  something 
droll  out  of  Squeers,  John  Browdie,  & Co. 
Also,  the  Bastille  prisoner  from  the  Tale  of  Two 
Cities.  Also,  the  Dwarf  from  one  of  our  Christ- 
mas numbers.”  Only  the  first  two  were  added 
to  the  list  for  the  present  circuit. 

It  was  in  the  midst  of  these  active  prepara- 
tions that  painful  news  reached  him.  An  illness 
under  which  Mr.  Arthur  Smith  had  been  some  | 
time  suffering  took  unexpectedly  a dangerous 
turn,  and  there  came  to  be  but  small  chance  of 
his  recovery.  A distressing  interview  on  the 
28th  of  September  gave  Dickens  little  hope. 

“ And  yet  his  wakings  and  wanderings  so  per- 
petually turn  on  his  arrangements  for  the  Read- 
ings, and  he  is  so  desperately  unwilling  to 
relinquish  the  idea  of  ‘ going  on  with  the  busi- 
ness ’ to-morrow  and  to-morrow  and  to-morrow, 
that  I had  not  the  heart  to  press  him  for  the 
papers.  Tie  told  me  that  he  believed  he  had 
by  him  ‘ 70  or  80  letters  unanswered.’  You 
may  imagine  how  anxious  it  makes  me,  and  at 
what  a deadstop  I stand.”  Another  week 
passed,  and  with  it  the  time  fixed  at  the  places 
where  his  w'ork  was  to  have  opened ; but  he 
could  not  bring  himself  to  act  as  if  all  hope  had 
gone.  “ With  a sick  man  who  has  been  so 
zealous  and  faithful,  I feel  bound  to  be  very 
tender  and  patient.  When  I told  him  the  other 
day  about  my  having  engaged  Headland — ‘ to 
do  all  the  personally  bustling  and  fatiguing  part 
of  your  work,’  I said — he  nodded  his  heavy 
head  with  great  satisfaction,  and  faintly  got  of 
himself  the  words,  ‘ Of  course  I pay  him,  and 
not  you.’  ” The  poor  fellow  died  in  October ; 
and  on  the  day  after  attending  the  funeral, 


347 


Dickens  heard  of  the  death  of  his  brother-in- 
law  and  friend,  Mr.  Henry  Austin,  whose  abili- 
ties and  character  he  respected  as  much  as  he 
liked  the  man.  He  lost  much  in  losing  the 
judicious  and  safe  counsel  which  had  guided 
him  on  many  public  questions  in  which  he  took 
lively  interest,  and  it  was  with  a heavy  heart  he 
set  out  at  last  upon  his  second  circuit.  “ With 
what  difficulty  I get  myself  back  to  the  readings 
after  all  this  loss  and  trouble,  or  with  what  un- 
willingness I work  myself  up  to  the  mark  of 
looking  them  in  the  face,  I can  hardly  say.  As 
for  poor  Arthur  Smith  at  this  time,  it  is  as  if  my 
right  arm  were  gone.  It  is  only  just  now  that  I 
am  able  to  open  one  of  the  books,  and  screw 
the  text  out  of  myself  in  a flat  dull  way.  En-  | 

closed  is  the  list  of  what  I have  to  do.  You 
will  see  that  I have  left  ten  days  in  November  i 
for  the  Christmas  number,  and  also  a good  j 
Christmas  margin  for  our  meeting  at  Gadshill.  | 
I shall  be  very  glad  to  have  the  money  that  I 1 

expect  to  get;  but  it  will  be  earned.”  That  | 

November  interval  was  also  the  date  of  the  | 

marriage  of  his  eldest  son  to  the  daughter  of  j 
Mr.  Evans,  so  long,  in  connection  with  Mr.  j 
Bradbury,  his  publisher  and  printer. 

The  start  of  the  readings  at  Norwich  was  not 
good,  so  many  changes  of  vexation  having  been 
incident  to  the  opening  announcements  as  to 
leave  some  doubt  of  their  fulfilment.  But  the 
second  night,  when  trial  was  made  of  the 
Nickleby  scenes,  “ we  had  a splendid  hall,  and  I 
think  Nickleby  will  top  all  the  readings.  Some- 
how it  seems  to  have  got  in  it,  by  accident,  • 
exactly  the  qualities  best  suited  to  the  purpose  ; i 
and  it  went  last  night,  not  only  with  roars,  but  i 
with  a general  hilarity  and  pleasure  that  I have 
never  seen  surpassed.”  From  this  night  on-  ! 
ward,  the  success  was  uninterrupted,  and  here  j 
was  his  report  to  me  from  Brighton  on  the  8th  i 
of  November.  “We  turned  away  half  Dover  | 
and  half  Hastings  and  half  Colchester ; and,  if  | 
you  can  believe  such  a thing,  I may  tell  you 
that  in  round  numbers  we  find  1000  stalls  j 
already  taken  here  in  Brighton ! I left  Col- 
chester in  a heavy  snow-storm.  To-day  it  is  so 
warm  here  that  I can  hardly  bear  the  fire,  and 
am  writing  with  the  window  open  down  to  the 
ground.  Last  night  I had  a most  charming 
audience  for  Copperfield,  with  a delicacy  of  per- 
ception that  really  made  the  work  delightful. 

It  is  very  pretty  to  see  the  girls  and  women  gene- 
rally, in  the  matter  of  Dora ; and  everywhere  | 
I have  found  that  peculiar  personal  relation 
between  my  audience  and  myself  on  which  I 
counted  most  when  I entered  on  this  enterprise. 
Nickleby  continues  to  go  in  the  wildest  manner.” 


348  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICIvENS. 


A storm  was  at  this  time  sweeping  round  the 
coast,  and  while  at  Dover  he  had  written  of  it 
to  his  sister-in-law  (yth  of  November);  “The 
bad  weather  has  not  in  the  least  touched  us, 
and  the  storm  was  most  magnificent  at  Dover. 
All  the  great  side  of  the  Lonl  Warden  next  to 
the  sea  had  to  be  emptied,  the  break  of  the 
waves  was  so  prodigious,  and  the  noise  so  utterly 
confounding.  The  sea  came  in  like  a great  sky 
of  immense  clouds,  for  ever  breaking  suddenly 
into  furious  rain ; all  kinds  of  wreck  were  washed 
in,  among  other  things  a very  pretty  brass-bound 

chest  being  thrown  about  like  a feather 

The  unhappy  O^tend  packet,  unable  to  get  in 
or  go  back,  beat  about  the  Channel  all  Tuesday 
night,  and  until  noon  yesterday,  when  I saw  her 
come  in,  with  five  men  at  the  wheel,  a picture  of 

misery  inconceivable The  effect  of  the 

readings  at  Hastings  and  Dover  really  seems  to 
have  outdone  the  best  usual  impression  ; and  at 
Dover  they  wouldn’t  go,  but  sat  applauding  like 
mad.  The  most  delicate  audience  I have  seen 
in  any  provincial  place,  is  Canterbury  ” (“  an 
intelligent  and  delightful  response  in  them,”  he 
wrote  to  his  daughter,  “ like  the  touch  of  a 
beautiful  instrument  ”)  ■,  “ but  the  audience  with 
the  greatest  sense  of  humour,  certainly  is  Dover. 
The  people  in  the  stalls  set  the  example  of 
laughing,  in  the  most  curiously  unreserved  way; 
and  they  laughed  with  such  really  cordial  enjoy- 
ment, when  Squeers  read  the  boys’  letters,  that 
the  contagion  extended  to  me.  For,  one  couldn’t 

hear  them  without  laughing  too So,  I 

• am  thankful  to  say,  all  goesSvell,  and  the  recom- 
pense for  the  trouble  is  in  every  way  Great.” 
From  the  opposite  quarter  of  Berwick-on- 
Tweed  he  wrote  again  in  the  midst  of  storm. 
But  first  his  mention  of  Newcastle,  which  he 
had  also  taken  on  his  way  to  Edinburgh,  reading 
two  nights  there,  should  be  given.  “At  New- 
castle, against  the  very  heavy  expenses,  I made 
more  than  a hundred  guineas  profit.  A finer 
audience  there  is  not  in  England,  and  I suppose 
them  to  be  a specially  earnest  people  ; for,  while 
they  can  laugh  till  they  shake  the  roof,  they  have 
a very  unusual  sympathy  with  what  is  pathetic 
or  passionate.  An  extraordinary  thing  occurred 
on  the  second  night.  The  room  was  tremen- 
dously crowded  and  my  gas-apparatus  felt  down. 
There  was  a terrible  wave  among  the  people  for 
an  instant,  and  God  knows  what  destruction  of 
life  a rush  to  the  stairs  would  have  caused.  For- 
tunately a lady  in  the  front  of  the  stalls  ran  out 
towards  me,  exactly  in  a place  where  I knew 
that  the  whole  hall  could  see  her.  So  I ad- 
dressed her,  laughing,  and  halfaskcd  and  half- 
j ordered  her  to  sit  down  again ; and,  in  a moment. 


it  was  all  over.  But  the  men  in  attendance  had 
such  a fearful  sense  of  what  might  have  hap- 
pened (besides  the  real  danger  of  Fire)  that  they 
positively  shook  the  boards  I stood  on,  with 
their  trembling,  when  they  came  up  to  put  things 
right.  I am  proud  to  record  that  the  gas-man’s 
sentiment,  as  delivered  afterwards,  was,  ‘ The 
more  you  want  of  the  master,  the  more  you’ll 
find  in  him.’  With  which  complimentary  homage, 
and  with  the  wind  blowing  so  that  I can  hardly 
hear  myself  write,  I conclude.” 

It  was  still  blowing,  in  the  shape  of  a 
gale  from  the  sea,  when,  an  hour  before  the 
reading,  he  wrote  from  the  King’s  Arms  at 
Berwick- on-Tweed.  “ As  odd  and  out  of  the 
way  a place  to  be  at,  it  appears  to  me,  as  ever 
was  seen  ! And  such  a ridiculous  room  de- 
signed for  me  to  read  in  ! An  immense  Corn 
Exchange,  made  of  glass  and  iron,  round,  dome- 
topp’d,  lofty,  utterly  absurd  for  any  such  purpose, 
and  full  of  thundering  echoes ; with  a little  lofty 
crow’s  nest  of  a stone  gallery,  breast  high,  deep 
in  the  wall,  into  which  it  was  designed  to  put 

tne ! I instantly  struck,  of  course  ; and 

said  I would  either  read  in  a room  attached  to 
this  house  (a  very  snug  one,  capable  of  holding 
500  people),  or  not  at  all.  Terrified  local  agents 
glowered,  but  fell  prostrate,  and  my  men  took 
the  primitive  accommodation  in  hand.  Ever 
since,  I am  alarmed  to  add,  the  people  (who 
besought  the  honour  of  the  visit)  have  been 
coming  in  numbers  quite  irreconcileable  with 
the  appearance  of  the  place,  and  what  is  to  be 
the  end  I do  not  know.  It  was  poor  Arthur 
Smith’s  principle  that  a town  on  the  way  paid 
the  expenses  of  a long  through-journey,  and 
therefore  I came.”  The  Reading  paid  more  than 
those  expenses. 

Enthusiastic  greeting  awaited  him  in  Edin- 
burgh. “ We  had  in  the  hall  exactly  double 
what  we  had  on  the  first  night  last  time.  The 
success  of  Copper  field  was  perfectly  unexampled. 
Four  great  rounds  of  applause  with  a burst  of 
cheering  at  the  end,  and  every  point  taken  in 
the  finest  manner.”  But  this  was  nothing  to 
what  befell  on  the  second  night,  when,  by  some 
mistake  of  the  local  agents,  the  tickets  issued 
were  out  of  proportion  to  the  space  available. 
Writing  from  Glasgow  next  day  (3rd  of  Decem- 
ber) he  described  the  scene.  “ Such  a pouring 
of  hundreds  into  a place  already  full  to  the 
throat,  such  indescribable  confusion,  such  a 
rending  and  tearing  of  dresses,  and  yet  such  a 
scene  of  good  humour  on  the  whole,  I never 
saw  the  faintest  approach  to.  While  1 addressed 
the  crowd  in  the  room,  G addressed  the  crowd 
in  the  street.  Fifty  frantic  men  got  up  in  all 


SECOND  SEE  IBS  OF  READINGS. 


349 


parts  of  tire  hall  and  addressed  me  all  at  once. 
('Ither  frantic  men  made  speeches  to  the  walls. 
The  whole  B family  were  borne  in  on  the  top 
of  a wave,  and  landed  with  their  faces  against 
the  front  of  the  platform.  I read  with  the  plat- 
form crammed  with  people.  I got  them  to  lie 
down  upon  it,  and  it  was  like  some  impossible 
tableau  or  gigantic  pic-nic — one  pretty  girl  in 
full  dress,  lying  on  her  side  all  night,  holding 
on  to  one  of  the  legs  of  my  table  ! It  was  the 
most  e.xtraordinary  sight.  And  yet,  from  the 
moment  I began  to  the  moment  of  my  leaving 
oft',  they  never  missed  a point,  and  they  ended 

with  a burst  of  cheers The  expenditure  of 

lungs  and  spirits  was  (as  you  may  suppose) 
rather  great ; and  to  sleep  well  was  out  of  the 
question.  I am  therefore  rather  fagged  to-day  ; 
and  as  the  hall  in  which  I read  to-night  is  a 
large  one,  I must  make  my  letter  a short  one. 

. . . . My  people  were  torn  to  ribbons  last 
night.  They  have  not  a hat  among  them — and 
scarcely  a coat.”  He  came  home  for  his  Christ- 
mas rest  by  way  of  Manchester,  and  thus  spoke 
of  the  reading  there  on  the  14th  of  December. 
“ Coppcrfidd  in  the  Free  Trade  Hall  last  Satur- 
day was  really  a grand  scene.” 

He  was  in  southern  latitudes  after  Christmas, 
and  on  the  8th  of  January  wrote  from  Torquay; 
“ We  are  now  in  the  region  of  small  rooms,  and 
therefore  this  trip  will  not  be  as  profitable  as 
the  long  one.  I imagine  the  room  here  to  be 
very  small.  Exeter  I know,  and  that  is  small 
too.  I am  very  much  used  up  on  the  whole, 
for  I cannot  bear  this  moist  warm  climate.  It 
would  kill  me  very  soon.  And  I have  now  got 
to  the  point  of  taking  so  much  out  of  myself 
with  Copperfidd  that  I might  as  well  do  Richard 

Wardour This  is  a very  pretty  place — a 

compound  of  Hastings,  Tunbridge  Wells,  and 
little  bits  of  the  hills  about  Naples ; but  I met 
four  respirators  as  I came  up  from  the  station, 
and  three  pale  curates  without  them  who  seemed 
in  a bad  way.”  They  had  been  not  bad  omens, 
however.  The  success  was  good,  at  both  Tor- 
quay and  Exeter ; and  he  closed  the  month  and 
this  series  of  the  country  readings,  at  the  great 
towns  of  Liverpool  and  Chester.  “ The  beau- 
tiful St.  Geosge’s  Hall  crowded  to  excess  last 
night”  (28th  of  January  1862)  “and  numbers 
turned  away.  Brilliant  to  see  when  lighted  up, 
and  for  a reading  simply  perfect.  You  remember 
that  a Liverpool  audience  is  usually  dull ; but 
they  put  me  on  my  mettle  last  night,  for  I never 
saw  such  an  audience — no,  not  even  in  Edin- 
burgh ! The  agents  (alone,  and  of  course  with- 
out any  reference  to  ready  money  at  the  doors) 
had  taken  for  the  two  readings  two  hundred 


pounds.”  But  as  the  end  approached  the  fatigues 
had  told  severely  on  him.  He  described  him- 
self sleeping  horribly,  and  with  head  dazed  and 
worn  by  gas  and  heat.  Rest,  before  he  could 
resume  at  the  St.  James’s  Hall  in  iMarch,  was 
become  an  absolute  necessity. 

Two  brief  extracts  from  letters  of  the  dates 
respectively  of  the  8th  of  April  and  the  28th  of 
June  will  sufficiently  describe  the  London  read- 
ings. “The  money  returns  have  been  quite 
astounding.  Think  of  ;^i9o  a night!  The 
effect  of  Copperfidd  exceeds  all  the  expectations 
which  its  success  in  the  country  led  me  to  form. 
It  seems  to  take  people  entirely  by  surprise.  If 
this  is  not  new  to  you,  I have  not  a word  of 
news.  The  rain  that  raineth  every  day  seems  to 
have  washed  news  away  or  got  it  under  water.” 
That  was  in  April.  In  June  he  wrote:  “I 
finished  my  readings  on  Friday  night  to  an 
enormous  hall — nearly  p(^20o.  The  success  has 
been  throughout  complete.  It  seems  almost 
suicidal  to  leave  off  with  the  town  so  full,  but  I 
don’t  like  to  depart  from  my  public  pledge.  A 
man  from  Australia  is  in  I^ondon  ready  to  pay 

10,000  for  eight  months  there.  If ” It 

was  an  If  that  troubled  him  for  some  time,  and 
led  to  agitating  discussion.  The  civil  war 
having  closed  America,  an  increase  made  upon 
the  just-named  offer  tempted  him  to  Australia. 
He  tried  to  familiarize  himself  with  the  fancy 
that  he  should  thus  also  get  new  material  for 
observation,  and  he  went  so  far  as  to  plan  an 
Uncommercial  Traveller  Upside  Down.  It  is 
however  very  doubtful  if  such  a scheme  would 
have  been  entertained  for  a moment,  but  for  the 
unwonted  difficulties  of  invention  that  were  now 
found  to  beset  a twenty-number  story.  Such  a 
story  had  lately  been  in  his  mind,  and  he  had 
just  chosen  the  title  for  it  (Our  Mutual  Friend)-, 
but  still  he  halted  and  hesitated  sorely.  “ If  it 
was  not”  (he  wrote  on  the  5th  of  October  1862) 
“ for  the  hope  of  a gain  that  wmuld  make  me 
more  independent  of  the  worst,  I could  not  look 
the  travel  and  absence  and  exertion  in  the  face. 

I know  perfectly  well  before-hand  how  unspeak- 
ably wretched  I should  be.  But  these  renewed 
and  larger  offers  tempt  me.  I can  force  myself 
to  go  aboard  a ship,  and  I can  force  myself  to 
do  at  that  reading-desk  what  I have  done  a 
hundred  times  ; but  whether,  with  all  this  un- 
settled fluctuating  distress  in  my  mind,  I could 
force  an  original  book  out  of  it,  is  another 
question.”-  On  the  22nd,  still  striving  hard  to 
And  reasons  to  cope  with  the  all  but  irresistible 
arguments  against  any  such  adventure,  which 
indeed,  with  everything  that  then  surrounded 
him,  would  have  been  little  short  of  madness, 


35° 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICLIENS. 


he  thus  stated  his  experience  of  his  two  circuits  of 
public  reading.  “ Remember  that  at  home  here 
the  thing  has  never  missed  fire,  but  invariably 
does  more  the  second  time  than  it  did  the  first ; 
and  also  that  I have  got  so  used  to  it,  and  have 
worked  so  hard  at  it,  as  to  get  out  of  it  more 
than  I ever  thought  was  in  it  for  that  purpose. 
I think  all  the  probabilities  for  such  a country  as 
Australia  are  immense.”  The  terrible  difficulty 
was  that  the  home  argument  struck  both  ways. 
Tf  I were  to  go  it  would  be  a penance  and  a, 
misery,  and  I dread  the  thought  more  than  I 
can  possibly  express.  The  domestic  life  of  the 
Readings  is  all  but  intolerable  to  me  when  I am 
away  for  a few  weeks  at  a time  merely,  and  what 

would  it  be ” On  the  other  hand  it  was  also 

a thought  of  home,  far  beyond  the  mere  personal 
loss  or  gain  of  it,  that  made  him  willing  still  to 
risk  even  so  much  misery  and  penance  ; and  he 
had  a fancy  that  it  might  be  possible  to  take  his 
eldest  daughter  with  him.  “ It  is  useless  and 
needless  for  me  to  say  what  the  conflict  in  my 
own  mind  is.  How  painfully  unwilling  I am  to 
go,  and  yet  how  painfully  sensible  that  perhaps 
I ought  to  go — with  all  the  hands  upon  my 
skirts  that  I cannot  fail  to  feel  and  see  there, 
whenever  I look  round.  It  is  a struggle  of  no 
common  sort,  as  you  w'ill  suppose,  you  who 
know  the  circumstances  of  the  straggler.”  It 
closed  at  once  wflren  he  clearly  saw  that  to  take 
any  of  his  family  with  him,  and  make  satisfactory 
arrangement  for  the  rest  during  such  an  absence, 
w'ould  be  impossible.  By  this  time  also  he 
began  to  find  his  way  to  the  new  story,  and 
better  hopes  and  spirits  had  returned. 

In  January  1863  he  had  taken  his  daughter 
and  his  sister-in-law  to  Paris,  and  he  read  twice 
at  the  Embassy  in  behalf  of  the  British  Chari- 
table Fund,  the  success  being  such  that  he  con- 
sented to  read  twice  again.  He  passed  his 
birthday  of  that  year  (the  7th  of  the  following 
month)  at  Arras.  “You  will  remember  me  to- 
day, I know'.  Thanks  for  it.  An  odd  birthday, 
but  I am  as  little  out  of  heart  as  you  would 
have  me  be — floored  now  and  then,  but  coming 
up  again  at  the  call  of  Time.  I wanted  to  see 
this  town,  birthplace  of  our  amiable  Sea  Green  ” 
(Robespierre) ; “ and  I find  a Grand  Place  so 
very  remarkable  and  picturesque  that  it  is  as- 
tonishing how  j^eople  miss  it.  Idere  too  I found, 
in  a bye-country  place  just  near,  a Fair  going  on, 
with  a religious  Richardson’s  in  it — Theatre 
Religieux — ‘ donnant  six  fois  par  jour,  I’histoire 
dc  la  Croix  en  tableaux  vivants,  depuis  la  nais- 
sance  de  notre  Seigneur  juscpfit  son  sepulture. 
Aussi  rimmolation  d’ Isaac,  ]>ar  son  pere  Abra- 
ham.’ It  v/as  just  before  nightfall  when  I came 


upon  it ; and  one  of  the  three  wise  men  w'as  up 
to  his  eyes  in  lamp  oil,  hanging  the  moderators. 

woman  in  blue  and  fleshings  (whether  an 
angel  or  Joseph’s  wife  I don’t  know)  w'as  ad- 
dressing the  crowd  through  an  enormous  speak- 
ing-trumpet ; and  a very  small  boy  with  a pro- 
perty lamb  (I  leave  you  to  judge  who  he  was) 
was  standing  on  his  head  on  a barrel-organ.” 
Returning  to  England  by  Boulogne  in  the  same 
year,  as  he  stepped  into  the  Folkestone  boat  he 
encountered  a friend,  Mr.  Charles  Manby  (in 
recording  a trait  of  character  so  pleasing  and 
honourable  it  is  not  necessary  that  I should 
suppress  the  name),  also  passing  over  to  Eng- 
land. “ Taking  leave  of  Manby  was  a shabby 
man  of  whom  I had  some  remembrance,  but 
whom  I could  not  get  into  his  place  in  my 
mind.  Noticing  when  we  stood  out  of  the  har- 
bour that  he  was  on  the  brink  of  the  pier,  waving 
his  hat  in  a desolate  manner,  I said  to  Manby, 

‘ Surely  I know  that  man.’ — ‘ I should  think  you 
did,’  said  he;  ‘Hudson!’  He  is  living — just 
living — at  Paris,  and  Manby  had  brought  him 
on.  He  said  to  Manby  at  parting,  ‘ I shall  not 
have  a good  dinner  again,  till  you  come  back.’ 
I asked  Manby  why  he  stuck  to  him?  He  said. 
Because  he  (Hudson)  had  so  many  people  in 
his  power,  and  had  held  his  peace,  and  because 
he  (Manby)  saw  so  many  Notabilities  grand 
with  him  now,  who  were  always  grovelling  for 
‘ shares  ’ in  the  days  of  his  grandeur.” 

Upon  arrival  in  London  the  second  series  of 
the  readings  was  brought  to  a close. 


VH. 


THIRD  SERIES  OF  READINGS. 

1864 — 1867. 

HE  sudden  death  of  Thackeray  on 
the  Christmas  eve  of  1863  was  a 
painful  shock  to  Dickens.  It  would 
not  become  me  to  speak,  when  he 
has  himself  spoken,  of  his  relations 
so  areat  a writer  and  so  okl  a 
4'p*'  friend. 

“ I saw  him  first,  nearly  twenty-eight 
years  ago,  when  he  proposed  to  become  the 
illustrator  of  my  earliest  book.  I saw  him  last, 
shortly  before  Christmas,  at  the  Athenrcum  Club, 
when  he  told  me  tliat  lie  had  been  in  bed  three 
days  ....  and  th.at  he  had  it  in  Ins  mind  to 
try  a new  remedy  which  he  laughingly  described. 
He  was  cheerful,  and  looked  very  bright.  In 


THIRD  SERIES  OF  READINGS. 


351 


the  night  of  tlutt  day  n eck,  he  died.  The  long 
interval  between  these  two  periods  is  marked  in 
my  remembrance  of  him  by  many  occasions 
when  he  was  extremely  humorous,  when  he  was 
irresistibly  extravagant,  when  he  w'as  softened 
and  serious,  wlien  he  was  charming  with  chil- 
dren  No  one  can  be  surer  than  I,  of  the 

greatness  and  goodness  of  his  heart In 

no  place  should  I take  it  upon  myself  at  this 
time  to  discourse  of  his  books,  of  his  refined 
knowledge  of  character,  of  his  subtle  acquaint- 
ance with  the  weaknesses  of  human  nature,  of 
his  delightful  playfulness  as  an  essayist,  of  his 
quaint  and  touching  ballads,  of  his  mastery  over 

the  English  language But  before  me  lies 

all  that  he  had  rvritten  of  his  latest  story  .... 
and  the  pain  I have  felt  in  perusing  it  has  not 
been  deeper  than  the  conviction  that  he  was  in 
the  healthiest  vigour  of  his  powers  when  he 

w'orked  on  this  last  labour The  last 

Avords  he  corrected  in  print  were  ‘ And  my  heart 
throbbed  with  an  exquisite  bliss.’  God  grant 
that  on  that  Christmas  Eve  w'hen  he  laid  his 
head  back  on  his  pillow  and  threw  up  his  arms 
as  he  had  been  Avont  to  do  Avhen  very  Aveary, 
some  consciousness  of  duty  done,  and  of  Chris- 
tian hope  throughout  life  humbly  cherished, 
may  have  caused  his  OAvn  heart  so  to  throb, 
Avhen  he  passed  aAvay  to  his  Redeemer’s  rest. 
He  Avas  found  peacefully  lying  as  above  de- 
scribed, composed,  undisturbed,  and  to  all  ap- 
pearance asleep.”  * 

Other  griefs  Avere  Avith  Dickens  at  this  time, 
and  close  upon  them  came  the  too  certain  evi- 
dence that  his  OAvn  health  Avas  yielding  to  the 
overstrain  Avhich  had  been  placed  upon  it  by  the 
occurrences  and  anxieties  of  the  feAv  preceding 
years.  His  mother,  Avhose  infirm  health  had 
been  tending  for  more  than  two  years  to  the 
close,  died  in  September  1863;  and  on  his 
OAvn  birthday  in  the  folloAving  February  he  had 
tidings  of  the  death  of  his  second  son  Walter, 
on  the  last  day  of  the  old  year,  in  the  officers’ 
hospital  at  Calcutta  ; to  Avhich  he  had  been  sent 
up  invalided  from  his  station,  on  his  Avay  home. 
He  Avas  a lieutenant  in  the  26th  Native  Infantry 
regiment,  and  had  been  doing  duty  Avith  the 
42nd  Highlanders.  In  1853  his  father  had  thus 
Avritten  to  the  youth’s  godfather,  Walter  Savage 
Landor : “ Walter  is  a very  good  boy,  and 
comes  home  from  school  with  honourable  com- 
mendation and  a prize  into  the  bargain.  He 
never  gets  into  trouble,  for  he  is  a great  favour- 
ite Avith  the  Avhole  house  and  one  of  the  most 
amiable  boys  in  the  boy-Avorld.  He  comes  out 
on  birthdays  in  a blaze  of  shirt  pin.”  The  pin 
* From  the  Cornhill  Magazine  for  Februaiy,  1864. 


Avas  a present  from  Landor ; to  Avhom,  three 
years  later,  Avhen  the  boy  had  obtained  his 
cadetship  through  the  kindness  of  Miss  Coutts, 
Dickens  Avrotc  again.  “ Walter  has  done  ex- 
tremely Avell  at  school ; has  brought  home  a 
prize  in  triumph;  and  Avill  be  eligible  to  ‘go 
up  ’ for  his  India  examination  soon  after  next 
Easter.  Having  a direct  appointment  he  Avill 
probably  be  sent  out  soon  after  he  has  passed, 
and  so  Avill  fall  into  that  strange  life  ‘ up  the 
country  ’ before  he  Avell  knoAVS  he  is  alive,  or 
Avhat  life  is — Avhich  indeed  seems  to  be  rather  an 
advanced  state  of  knoAvledge.”  If  he  had  lived 
another  month  he  would  have  reached  his 
tAventy-third  year,  and  perhaps  not  then  the 
advanced  state  of  knoAvledge  his  father  speaks 
of.  But,  never  forfeiting  his  claim  to  those 
kindly  paternal  Avords,  he  had  the  goodness  and 
simplicity  of  boyhood  to  the  close. 

Dickens  had  at  this  time  begun  his  last  story 
in  tAventy  numbers,  and  my  next  chapter  Avill 
show  through  Avhat  uuAvonted  troubles,  in  this 
and  the  folloAving  year,  he  had  to  fight  his  Avay. 
What  otherAvise  during  its  progress  chiefly  inter- 
ested him,  Avas  the  enterprise  of  Mr.  Fechter  at 
the  Lyceum,  of  Avhich  he  had  become  the  lessee ; 
and  Dickens  was  moved  to  this  quite  as  much 
by  generous  sympathy  Avith  the  difficulties  of 
such  a position  to  an  artist  Avho  AA^as  not  an 
Englishman,  as  by  genuine  admiration  of  Mr. 
Fechter’s  acting.  He  became  his  helper  in  dis- 
putes, adviser  on  literary  points,  referee  in  mat- 
ters of  management ; and  for  some  years  no  face 
Avas  more  familiar  than  the  French  comedian’s 
at  Gadshill  or  in  the  office  of  his  journal.  But 
theatres  and  their  affairs  are  things  of  a season, 
and  even  Dickens’s  Avhim  and  humour  Avill  not- 
revive  for  us  any  interest  in  these.  No  bad 
example,  however,  of  the  difficulties  in  Ayhich  a 
French  actor  may  find  himself  Avith  English 
playwrights,  Avill  appear  in  a fcAV  amusing  AVords 
from  one  of  his  letters  about  a piece  played  at 
the  Princess’s  before  the  Lyceum  management 
Avas  taken  in  hand. 

“ I have  been  cautioning  Fechter  about  the 
play  Avhereof  he  gave  the  plot  and  scenes  to  B ; 
and  out  of  Avhich  I have  struck  some  enormities, 
my  account  of  which  Avill  (I  think)  amuse  you. 
It  has  one  of  the  best  first  acts  I ever  saAV ; but 
if  he  can  do  much  Avith  the  last  tAvo,  not  to  say 
three,  there  are  resources  in  his  art  that  I know 
nothing  about.  When  I Avent  over  the  play  this 
day  Aveek,  he  Avas  at  least  20  minutes,  in  a boat, 
in  the  last  scene,  discussing  Avith  another  gentle- 
man (also  in  the  boat)  Avhether  he  should  kill 
him  or  not ; after  Avhich  the  gentleman  dived 
overboard  and  SAvam  for  it.  Also,  in  the  most 


352 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKERS. 


important  and  dangerous  parts  of  the  play, 
tliere  was  a young  person  of  the  name  of  Pickles 
who  was  constantly  being  mentioned  by  name, 
in  conjunction  with  the  powers  of  light  or  dark- 
ness ; as,  ‘Great  Heaven!  Pickles?’ — ‘PyHell, 
’tis  Pickles!’ — ‘Pickles?  a thousand  Devils!’ — 
‘Distraction!  Pickles?”’ 

The  old  year  ended  and  the  new  one  opened 
sadly  enough.  The  death  of  Leech  in  Novem- 
ber affected  Dickens  very  much,  and  a severe 
attack  of  illness  in  February  put  a broad  mark 
between  his  past  life  and  what  remained  to  him 
of  the  future.  The  lameness  now  began  in  his 
left  foot  which  never  afterwards  wholly  left  him, 
which  was  attended  by  great  suffering,  and 
which  baffled  experienced  physicians.  He  had 
persisted  in  his  ordinary  exercise  during  heavy 
snow-storms,  and  to  the  last  he  had  the  fancy 
that  the  illness  was  merely  local.  But  that  this 
was  an  error  is  now  certain ; and  it  is  more  than 
probable  that  if  the  nervous  danger  and  dis- 
turbance it  implied  had  been  correctly  appre- 
ciated at  the  time,  its  warning  might  have  been 
of  priceless  value  to  Dickens.  Unhappily  he 
never  thought  of  husbanding  his  strength  except 
for  the  purpose  of  making  fresh  demands  upon 
it,  and  it  was  for  this  he  took  a brief  holiday  in 
France  during  the  summer.  “ Before  I went 
away,”  he  wrote  to  his  daughter,  “ I had  cer- 
tainly worked  myself  into  a damaged  state.  But 
the  moment  I got  away,  I began,  thank  God,  to 
get  well.  I hope  to  profit  by  this  experience, 
and  to  make  future  dashes  from  my  desk  before 
I want  them.”  At  his  return  he  was  in  the  ter- 
rible railway  accident  at  Staplehurst,  on  a day 
which  proved  afterwards  more  fatal  to  liim ; 
and  it  was  with  shaken  nerves  but  unsubdued 
energy  he  resumed  the  labour  to  be  presently 
described.  He  was  beset  by  nervous  apprehen- 
sions which  the  accident  had  caused  to  himself, 
not  lessened  by  his  generous  anxiety  to  assuage 
the  severer  sufferings  inflicted  by  it  on  others ; 
his  foot  also  troubled  him  more  or  less  through- 
out the  autumn  ; and  that  he  should  neverthe- 
less have  determined,  on  the  close  of  his  book, 
to  undertake  a series  of  readings  involving 
greater  strain  and  fatigue  than  any  hitherto, 
was  a startling  circumstance.  He  had  perhaps 
become  conscious,  without  owning  it  even  to 
himself,  that  for  exertion  of  this  kind  the  time 
left  him  was  short ; but,  whatever  pressed  him 
on,  his  task  of  the  next  three  years,  self-imposed, 
was  to  make  the  most  money  in  the  shortest 
time  without  any  regard  to  the  ])hysical  labour 
to  be  undergone.  Tlie  very  letter  announcing 
his  new  engagement  shows  how  entirely  unfit  lie 
was  to  enter  upon  it. 


“ For  some  time,”  he  wrote  at  the  end  of 
February  1866,  “I  have  been  very  unwell. 
F.  B.  wrote  me  word  that  with  such  a pulse  as 
I described,  an  examination  of  the  heart  was 
absolutely  necessary.  ‘ Want  of  muscular  power 
in  the  heart,’  B.  said.  ‘ Only  remarkable  irrita- 
bility of  the  heart,’  said  Dr.  Brinton  of  Brook 
Street,  who  had  been  called  in  to  consultation. 
I was  not  disconcerted  ; for  I knew  well  before- 
hand that  the  effect  could  not  jiossibly  be  with- 
out the  one  cause  at  the  bottom  of  it,  of  some 
degeneration  of  some  function  of  the  heart.  Of 
course  I am  not  so  foolish  as  to  suppose  that  all 
my  work  can  have  been  achieved  without  so7ne 
penalty,  and  I have  noticed  for  some  time  a de- 
cided change  in  my  buoyancy  and  hopefulness 
— in  other  words,  in  my  usual  ‘ tone.’  But 
tonics  have  already  brought  me  round.  So  I 
have  accepted  an  offer,  from  Chappells  of  Bond- 
street,  of  a night  for  thirty  nights  to  read 
‘ in  England,  Ireland,  Scotland,  or  Paris  ; ’ they 
undertaking  all  the  business,  paying  all  personal 
expenses,  travelling  and  otherwise,  of  myself, 
John”  (his  office  servant)  “and  my  gasman; 
and  making  what  they  can  of  it.  I begin,  I 
believe,  in  Liverpool  on  the  Thursday  in  Easter 
week,  and  then  come  to  London.  I am  going 
to  read  at  Cheltenham  (on  my  own  account)  on 
the  23rd  and  24th  of  this  month,  staying  with 
Macready  of  course.” 

The  arrangement  of  this  series  of  Readings 
differed  from  those  of  its  predecessors  in  reliev- 
ing Dickens  from  every  anxiety  except  of  the 
reading  itself ; but,  by  such  rapid  and  repeated 
change  of  nights  at  distant  places  as  kept  him 
almost  wholly  in  a railway  carriage  when  not  at 
the  reading  desk  or  in  bed,  it  added  enormously 
to  the  physical  fatigue.  He  would  read  at  St. 
James’s  Hall  in  London  one  night,  and  at  Brad- 
ford the  next.  He  would  read  in  Edinburgh, 
go  on  to  Glasgow  and  to  Aberdeen,  then  come 
back  to  Glasgow,  read  again  in  Edinburgh, 
strike  off  to  Manchester,  come  back  to  St. 
James’s  Hall  once  more,  and  begin  the  same 
round  again.  It  was  labour  that  must  in  time 
have  broken  down  the  strongest  man,  and  what 
Dickens  was  when  he  assumetl  it  we  have  seen. 

He  did  not  himself  admit  a shadow  ol  mis- 
giving. “ As  to  the  readings”  (nth  of  March), 
“ all  I have  to  do  is,  to  take  in  my  book  and 
read,  at  the  appointed  place  and  hour,  and 
come  out  again.  All  the  business  of  every 
kind,  is  done  by  Chappells.  They  take  John 
and  my  other  man,  merely  for  my  convenience. 

I have  no  more  to  do  with  any  detail  wliatevcr, 
than  you  have.  They  transact  all  the  business 
at  their  own  cost,  and  on  their  own  responsi- 


THIRD  SERIES  OF  READINGS.  353 


bility.  I think  they  are  disposed  to  do  it  in  a 
very  good  spirit,  because,  whereas  the  original 
proposition  was  for  thirty  readings  ‘ in  England, 
Ireland,  Scotland,  or  Paris,’  they  wrote  out  their 
agreement  ‘in  London,  the  Provinces,  or  else- 
where as  you  and  we  may  agree.’  For  this  they 
pay  ;^i5oo  in  three  sums  : on  beginning, 

on  the  fifteenth  Reading,  ;^5oo  at  the 
close.  Every  charge  of  every  kind,  they  pay 
besides.  I rely  for  mere  curiosity  on  Doctor 
Marigold  (I  am  going  to  begin  with  him  in 
Liverpool,  and  at  St.  James’s  Hall).  I have 
got  him  up  with  immense  pains,  and  should 
like  to  give  you  a notion  what  I am  going  to  do 
with  him.” 

The  success  everywhere  went  far  beyond  even 
the  former  successes.  A single  night  at  Man- 
chester, when  eight  hundred  stalls  were  let,  two 
thousand  five  hundred  and  si.xty-five  people 
admitted,  and  the  receipts  amounted  to  more 
than  three  hundred  pounds,  was  followed  in 
nearly  the  same  proportion  by  all  the  greater 
towns ; and  on  the  20th  of  April  the  outlay  for 
the  entire  venture  was  paid,  leaving  all  that 
remained,  to  the  middle  of  the  month  of  June, 
sheer  profit.  “ I came  back  last  Sunday,”  he 
wrote  on  the  30th  of  May,  “ with  my  last  coun- 
try piece  of  work  for  this  time  done.  Every- 
where the  success  has  been  the  same.  St. 
James’s  Hall  last  night  was  quite  a splendid 
spectacle.  Two  more  Tuesdays  there,  and  I 
shall  retire  into  private  life.  I have  only  been 
able  to  get  to  Gadshill  once  since  I left  it,  and 
that  was  the  day  before  yesterday.” 

One  memorable  evening  he  had  passed  at  my 
house  in  the  interval,  when  he  saw  Mrs.  Carlyle 
for  the  last  time.  Her  sudden  death  followed 
shortly  after,  and  near  the  close  of  April  he  had 
thus  written  to  me  from  Liverpool.  “ It  was  a 
terrible  shock  to  me,  and  poor  dear  Carlyle  has 
been  in  my  mind  ever  since.  How  often  I have 
thought  of  the  unfinished  novel.  No  one  now 
to  finish  it.  None  of  the  writing  women  come 
near  her  at  all.”  This  was  an  allusion  to  what 
had  passed  at  their  meeting.  It  was  on  the 
second  of  April,  the  day  when  Mr.  Carlyle  had  ^ 
delivered  his  inaugural  address  as  Lord  Rector  1 
of  Edinburgh  University,  and  a couple  of  ardent  1 
words  from  Professor  Tyndall  had  told  her  of 
the  triumph  just  before  dinner.  She  came  to 
us  flourishing  the  telegram  in  her  hand,  and  the 
radiance  of  her  enjoyment  of  it  was  upon  her 
all  the  night.  Among  other  things  she  gave 
Dickens  the  subject  for  a novel,  from  what  she 
had  herself  observed  at  the  outside  of  a house 
in  her  street ; of  which  the  various  incidents 
were  drawn  from  the  condition  of  its  blinds  and 


curtains,  the  costumes  visible  at  its  windows, 
the  cabs  at  its  door,  its  visitors  admitted  or 
rejected,  its  articles  of  furniture  delivered  or 
carried  away ; and  the  subtle  serious  humour  of 
it  all,  the  truth  in  trifling  bits  of  character,  and 
the  gradual  progress  into  a half  romantic  inter- 
est, had  enchanted  the  skilled  novelist.  She 
was  well  into  the  second  volume  of  her  small 
romance  before  she  left,  being  as  far  as  her  ob- 
servation then  had  taken  her;  but  in  a few  days 
exciting  incidents  were  expected,  the  denoue- 
ment could  not  be  far  off,  and  Dickens  was  to 
have  it  when  they  met  again.  Yet  it  was  to 
something  far  other  than  this  amusing  little 
fancy  his  thoughts  had  carried  him,  when  he 
wrote  of  no  one  being  capable  to  finish  what 
she  might  have  begun.  In  greater  things  this 
was  still  more  true.  None  could  doubt  it  who 
had  come  within  the  fascinating  influence  of 
that  sweet  and  noble  nature.  With  some  of  the 
highest  gifts  of  intellect,  and  the  charm  of  a 
most  varied  knowledge  of  books  and  things, 
there  was  something  “ beyond,  beyond.”  No 
one  who  knew  Mrs.  Carlyle  could  replace  her 
loss  when  she  had  passed  away. 

The  same  letter  which  told  of  his  uninter- 
rupted success  to  the  last,  told  me  also  that  he 
had  a heavy  cold  upon  him,  and  was  “ very 
tired  and  depressed.”  Some  weeks  before  the 
first  batch  of  readings  closed,  Messrs.  Chappell 
had  already  tempted  him  with  an  offer  for  fifty 
more  nights  to  begin  at  Christmas,  for  which  he 
meant,  as  he  then  said,  to  ask  them  seventy 
pounds  a night.  “ It  would  be  unreasonable  to 
ask  anything  now  on  the  ground  of  the  extent 
of  the  late  success,  but  I am  bound  to  look  to 
myself  for  the  future.  The  Chappells  are  specu- 
lators, though  of  the  worthiest  and  most  honour- 
able kind.  They  make  some  bad  speculations, 
and  have  made  a very  good  one  in  this  case, 
and  will  set  this  against  those.  I told  them 
when  we  agreed  : ‘ I offer  these  thirty  Readings, 
to  you  at  fifty  pounds  a night,  because  I know 
perfectly  well  beforehand  that  no  one  in  your 
business  has  the  least  idea  of  their  real  worth, 
and  I wish  to  prove  it.’  The  sum  taken  is 
;!^4720.”  The  result  of  the  fresh  negotiation, 
though  not  completed  until  the  beginning  of 
August,  may  be  at  once  described.  “Chappell 
instantly  accepts  my  proposal  of  forty  nights  at 
sixty  pounds  a night,  and  every  conceivable 
and  inconceivable  expense  paid.  To  make  an 
even  sum,  I have  made  it  forty-two  nights  for 
^^2500.  So  I shall  now  try  to  discover  a 
Christmas  number  (he  means  the  subject  for 
one),  and  shall,  please  Heaven,  be  quit  of  the 
whole  series  of  readings  so  as  to  get  to  work  on 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


354 


a new  story  for  our  proposed  new  series  of  All 
the  Year  Round  early  in  the  spring.  'Fhe  read- 
ings begin  probably  with  the  New  Year.”  These 
were  fair  designs,  but  the  fairest  are  the  sport  of 
eircumstance,  and  though  the  subject  for  Christ- 
mas was  found,  the  new  series  of  All  the  Year 
Round  never  had  a new  story  from  its  founder. 
Yhth  whatever  consequence  to  himself  the 
strong  tide  of  the  Readings  was  to  sweep  on  to 
its  full.  The  American  war  had  ceased,  and 
the  first  renewed  offers  from  the  States  had 
been  made  and  rejected.  Hovering  over  all, 
too,  were  other  sterner  dispositions.  “ I think,” 
he  wrote  in  September,  “ there  is  some  strange 
influence  in  the  atmosirhere.  Twice  last  week 
I was  seized  in  a most  distressing  manner — ap- 
parently in  the  lieart;  but,  I am  persuaded, 
only  in  the  nervous  system.” 

In  the  midst  of  his  ovations  such  checks  had 
not  been  wanting.  '•  The  police  reported  offi- 
cially,” he  wrote  to  his  daughter  from  Liverpool 
on  the  14th  of  April,  “ that  three  thousand  peo- 
ple were  turned  away  from  the  hall  last  night. 
. . . . Except  that  I can  not  sleep,  I really 
think  myself  in  very  much  better  training  than  I 
had  anticipated.  A dozen  oysters  and  a little 
champagne  between  the  parts  every  night,  seem 
to  constitute  the  best  restorative  I have  ever  yet 
tried.”  “ Such  a prodigious  demonstration  last 
night  at  Manchester,”  he  wrote  to  the  same  cor- 
respondent twelve  days  later,  “ that  I was  obliged 
(contrary  to  my  principle  in  such  cases)  to  go 
back.  I am  very  tired  to-day  ; for  it  would  be 
of  itself  very  hard  work  in  that  immense  place, 
if  there  were  not  to  be  added  eighty  miles  of 
railway  and  late  hours  to  boot.”  “ It  has  been 
very  heavy  work,”  he  wrote  to  his  sister-in-law 
on  the  nth  of  May  from  Clifton,  “getting  up  at 
6.30  each  morning  after  a heavy  night,  and  I am 
not  at  all  well  to-day.  We  had  a tremendous 
hall  at  Birmingham  last  night,  odd,  2100 

people  ; and  I made  a most  ridiculous  mistake. 
Had  Nickleby  on  my  list  to  finish  with,  instead 
of  Trial.  Read  Nicldcby  with  great  go,  and  the 
people  remained.  Went  back  again  at  10  o’clock, 
and  explained  the  accident : but  said  if  they 
liked  I would  give  them  the  Trial.  They  did 
like  ; — and  I had  another  half  hour  of  it,  in  that 

enormous  place I have  so  severe  a pain 

in  the  ball  of  my  left  eye  that  it  makes  it  iiard 
for  me  to  do  anything  after  100  miles  shaking 
since  breakfast.  My  cold  is  no  better,  nor  my 
hand  either.”  It  was  his  left  eye,  it  will  be 
noted,  as  it  was  his  left  foot  and  hand ; the  irri- 
tability or  faintness  of  Ireart  was  also  of  course 
on  the  left  side ; and  it  was  on  the  same  left  side 
he  felt  most  of  the  effect  of  the  railway  accident. 


Everything  was  done  to  make  easier  the 
labour  of  travel,  but  nothing  could  materially 
abate  either  the  absolute  ph}  sical  exhaustion,  or 
the  nervous  strain.  “ We  arrived  here,”  he 
wrote  from  Aberdeen  (i6th  of  May),  “safe  and 
sound  between  3 and  4 this  morning.  There 
was  a compartment  for  the  men,  and  a charming  1 
room  for  ourselves  furnished  with  sofas  and  easy  | 
chairs.  We  had  also  a pantry  and  washing-  1 

stand.  This  carriage  is  to  go  about  with  us.”  | 

Two  days  later  he  wrote  from  Glasgow.  “ We  I 
halted  at  Perth  yesterday,  and  got  a lovely  walk  i 
there.  Until  then  I had  been  in  a condition  i 
the  reverse  of  flourishing ; half  strangled  with 
my  cold,  and  dyspeptically  gloomy  and  dull ; 
but,  as  I feel  much  more  like  myself  this  morn- 
ing, we  are  going  to  get  some  fresh  air  aboard  a 
steamer  on  the  Clyde.”  The  last  letter  during 
his  country  travel  was  from  Portsmouth  on  the 
24th  of  May,  and  contained  these  words  : “ You 
need  have  no  fear  about  America,”  The  read- 
ings closed  in  June. 

The  readings  of  the  new  year  began  with  even 
increased  enthusiasm,  but  not  otherwise  with  | 
happier  omen.  Here  was  his  first  outline  of 
plan  : “ I start  on  Wednesday  afternoon  (the 
15th  of  January)  for  Liverpool,  and  then  go  on 
to  Chester,  Derby,  Leicester,  and  Wolverhamp- 
ton. On  Tuesday  the  29th  I read  in  London 
again,  and  in  February  I read  at  Manchester 
and  then  go  on  into  Scotland.”  From  Liverpool 
he  wrote  on  the  21st:  “The  enthusiasm  has 
been  unbounded.  On  Friday  night  I quite 
astonished  myself ; but  I was  taken  so  faint 
afterwards  that  they  laid  me  on  a sofa  at  the 
hall  for  half  an  hour.  I attribute  it  to  my  dis- 
tressing inability  to  sleep  at  night,  and  to  nothing 
worse.  Everything  is  made  as  easy  to  me  as  it 
possibly  can  be.  Dolby  would  do  anything  to 
lighten  the  work,  and  does  everything.”  The 
weather  was  sorely  against  him.  “ At  Chester,” 
he  wrote  on  the  24th  from  Birmingham,  “we 
read  in  a snow-storm  and  a fall  of  ice.  I think 

it  was  the  worst  weather  I ever  saw .Yt 

IVolverhampton  last  night  the  thaw  had  tho- 
roughly set  in,  and  it  rained  furiously,  and  I was 
again  heavily  beaten.  We  came  on  here  after 
the  reading  (it  is  only  a ride  of  forty  miles),  and  j 
it  was  as  much  as  I could  do  to  hold  out  the  j ^ 
journey.  But  I was  not  faint,  as  at  Liverpool.  \ , 
I was  only  exhausted.”  Five  days  later  he  had 
returned  for  his  Reading  in  London,  and  thus  1 
replied  to  a summons  to  dine  with  Macready  at 
my  house  : “ I am  very  tired  ; cannot  sleep  ; 
have  been  severely  shaken  on  an  atrocious  rail- 
way ; read  to-night  and  have  to  read  at  Leeds 
on  Thursday.  But  I have  settled  with  Dolby 


THIRD  SERIES 


to  put  off  our  going  to  Leeds  on  Wednesday,  in 
the  hope  of  coining  to  dine  with  you,  and  see- 
ing our  dear  old  friend.  I say,  ‘ in  the  hope,’ 
because  if  I should  be  a little  more  used  up  to- 
morrow than  I am  to-day,  I should  be  con- 
strained, in  spite  of  myself,  to  take  to  the  sofa 
and  stick  there.” 

On  the  15th  of  February  he  wrote  to  his 
sister-in-law  from  Liverpool  that  they  had  had 
“an  enormous  turn-away”  the  previous  night. 
■“The  day  has  been  very  fine,  and  I have  turned 
it  to  the  wholesomest  account  by  walking  on 
the  sands  at  New  Brighton  all  the  morning.  I 
am  not  quite  right  within,  but  believe  it  to  be 
an  effect  of  the  railway  shaking.  There  is  no 
doubt  of  the  fact  that,  after  the  Staplehurst  ex- 
perience, it  tells  more  and  more  (railway  shak- 
ing, that  is)  instead  of,  as  one  might  have  ex- 
pected, less  and  less.”  The  last  remark  is  a 
strange  one,  from  a man  of  his  sagacity ; but  it 
was  part  of  the  too-willing  self-deception  which 
he  practised,  to  justify  him  in  his  professed  be- 
lief that  these  continued  excesses  of  labour  and 
excitement  were  really  doing  him  no  harm. 
The  day  after  that  last  letter  he  pushed  on  to 
Scotland,  and  on  the  17  th  wrote  to  his  daughter 
from  Glasgow.  The  closing  night  at  Manchester 
had  been  enormous.  “ They  cheered  to  that 
extent  after  it  was  over  that  I was  obliged  to 
huddle  on  my  clothes  (for  I was  undressing  to 
prepare  for  the  journey)  and  go  back  again. 
After  so  heavy  a week,  it  was  rather  stiff  to  start 
on  this  long  journey  at  a quarter  to  two  in  the 
morning;  but  I got  more  sleep  than  I ever  got 

in  a railway  carriage  before I have,  as  I 

had  in  the  last  series  of  readings,  a curious  feel- 
ing of  soreness  all  round  the  body — which  I 
suppose  to  arise  from  the  great  exertion  of 

voice ” Two  days  later  he  wrote  to  his 

sister-in-law  from  the  Bridge  of  Allan,  which  he 
had  reached  from  Glasgow  that  morning.  “Yes- 
terday I was  so  unwell  with  an  internal  malady 
that  occasionally  at  long  intervals  troubles  me  a 
little,  and  it  was  attended  with  the  sudden  loss 
of  so  much  blood,  that  I wrote  to  F.  B.  from 

whom  I shall  doubtless  hear  to-morrow 

I felt  it  a little  more  exertion  to  read,  after- 
wards, and  I passed  a sleepless  night  after  that 
again ; but  otherwise  I am  in  good  force  and 
spirits  to-day  : I may  say,  in  the  best  force. 
....  The  quiet  of  this  little  place  is  sure  to 
do  me  good.”  He  rallied  again  from  this  at- 
tack, and  though  he  still  complained  of  sleep- 
lessness, wrote  cheerfully  from  Glasgow  on  the 
2ist,  describing  himself  indeed  as  confined  to 
his  room,  but  only  because  “ in  close  hiding 
from  a local  poet  who  has  christened  his  infant 


OE  READINGS.  355 


son  in  my  name,  and  consequently  haunts  the 
building.”  On  getting  back  to  Edinburgh  he 
wrote  to  me,  with  intimation  that  many  troubles 
had  beset  him  ; but  that  the  pleasure  of  his 
audiences,  and  the  providence  and  forethought 
of  Messrs.  Chappell,  had  borne  him  through. 
“Everything  is  done  for  me  with  the  utmost 
liberality  and  consideration.  Every  want  I can 
have  on  these  journeys  is  anticipated,  and  not 
the  faintest  spark  of  the  tradesman  spirit  ever 
jreeps  out.  I have  three  men  in  constant  at- 
tendance on  me ; besides  Dolby,  wdio  is  an 
agreeable  companion,  an  excellent  manager, 
and  a good  fellow.” 

On  the  4th  of  March  he  wrote  from  New- 
castle : “ The  readings  have  made  an  immense 
effect  in  this  place,  and  it  is  remarkable  that 
although  the  people  are  individually  rough,  col- 
lectively they  are  an  unusually  tender  and  sym- 
pathetic audience  ; while  their  comic  perception 
is  quite  up  to  the  high  London  standard.  The 
atmosphere  is  so  very  heavy  that  yesterday  we 
escaped  to  Tynemouth  for  a two  hours’  sea  walk. 
There  was  a high  north  wind  blowing,  and  a 
magnificent  sea  running.  Large  vessels  were 
being  towed  in  and  out  over  the  stormy  bar, 
with  prodigious  waves  breaking  on  it ; and, 
spanning  the  restless  uproar  of  the  waters,  was 
a quiet  rainbow  of  transcendent  beauty.  The 
scene  was  quite  wonderful.  We  were  in  the  full 
enjoyment  of  it  when  a heavy  sea  caught  us, 
knocked  us  over,  and  in  a moment  drenched  us 
and  filled  even  our  pockets.  We  had  nothing  for 
it  but  to  shake  ourselves  together  (like  Doctor 
Marigold),  and  dry  ourselves  as  well  as  we  could 
by  hard  walking  in  the  wind  and  sunshine.  But 
we  were  wet  through  for  all  that,  when  we  came 
back  here  to  dinner  after  half-an-hour’s  railway 
drive.  I am  wonderfully  well,  and  quite  fresh 
and  strong.”  Three  days  later  he  was  at  Leeds  ; 
from  which  he  was  to  work  himself  round  through 
the  most  important  neighbouring  places  to  an- 
other reading  in  London,  before  again  visiting 
Ireland. 

This  was  the  time  of  the  Fenian  excitements; 
it  was  with  great  reluctance  he  consented  to  go  ; 
and  he  told  us  all  at  his  first  arrival  that  he 
should  have  a complete  break  down.  More 
than  300  stalls  were  gone  at  Belfast  two  days 
before  the  reading,  but  on  the  afternoon  of  the 
reading  in  Dublin  not  50  were  taken.  Strange 
to  say  however  a great  crowd  pressed  in  at  night, 
he  had  a tumultuous  greeting,  and  on  the  22nd 
of  March  I had  this  announcement  from  him  : 
“ You  will  be  surprised  to  be  told  that  we  have 
done  woKDERS  ! Enthusiastic  crowds  have  filled 
the  halls  to  the  roof  each  night,  and  hundreds 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


35(J 


have  been  turned  away.  At  Belfast  the  night 
before  last  we  had  ^246  5s.  In  Dublin  to- 
night everything  is  sold  out,  and  people  are 
besieging  Dolby  to  put  chairs  anywhere,  in  door- 
ways, on  my  platform,  in  any  sort  of  hole  or 
corner.  In  short  the  Readings  are  a perfect 
rage  at  a time  when  everything  else  is  beaten 
down.”  He  took  the  Eastern  Counties  at  his 
return,  and  this  brought  the  series  to  a close. 
“ The  reception  at  Cambridge  was  something  to 
be  proud  of  in  such  a place.  The  colleges  mus- 
tered in  full  force,  from  the  biggest  guns  to  the 
smallest ; and  went  beyond  even  Manchester  in 
the  roars  of  welcome  and  rounds  of  cheers.  The 
place  was  crammed,  and  all  through  the  reading 
everything  was  taken  with  the  utmost  heartiness 
of  enjoyment.”  The  temptation  of  offers  from 
America  had  meanwhile  again  been  presented 
to  him  so  strongly,  and  in  such  unlucky  connec- 
tion with  immediate  family  claims  threatening 
excess  of  expenditure  even  beyond  the  income 
he  was  making,  that  he  was  fain  to  write  to  his 
sister-in-law ; “ I begin  to  feel  myself  drawn 
towards  America  as  Darnay  in  the  Talc  of  Two 
Cities  was  attracted  to  Paris.  It  is  my  Load- 
stone Rock.”  Too  surely  it  was  to  be  so ; and 
Dickens  was  not  to  be  saved  from  the  conse- 
quence of  yielding  to  the  temptation,  by  any 
such  sacrifice  as  had  rescued  Darnay. 

The  letter  which  told  me  of  the  close  of  his 
English  readings  had  in  it  no  word  of  the  farther 
enterprise,  yet  it  seemed  to  be  in  some  sort  a 
preparation  for  it.  “ Last  Monday  evening  ” 
(14th  May)  “ I finished  the  50  Readings  with 
great  success.  You  have  no  idea  how  I have 
worked  at  them.  Finding  it  necessary,  as  their 
reputation  widened,  that  they  should  be  better 
than  at  first,  I have  learnt  than  all.,  so  as  to  have 
no  mechanical  drawback  in  looking  after  the 
words.  I have  tested  all  the  serious  passion  in 
them  by  everything  I know ; made  the  humorous 
points  much  more  humorous ; corrected  my  ut- 
terance of  certain  words  ; cultivated  a self-pos- 
session not  to  be  disturbed ; and  made  myself 
master  of  the  situation.  Finishing  with  Dombcy 
(which  I had  not  read  for  a long  time),  I learnt 
that,  like  the  rest ; and  did  it  to  myself,  often 
twice  a clay,  with  exactly  the  same  pains  as  at 
night,  over  and  over  and  over  again.”  ....  Six 
days  later  brought  his  reply  to  a remark,  that  no 
degree  of  excellence  to  which  he  might  have 
brought  his  readings  could  reconcile  me  to  what 
there  was  little  doubt  would  soon  be  pressed 
ujion  him.  “It  is  curious”  (20th  May)  “that 
you  should  touch  the  American  subject,  because 
I must  confess  that  my  mind  is  in  a most  dis- 
turbed state  about  it.  That  the  i)eople  there 


have  set  themselves  on  having  the  readings, 
there  is  no  question.  Every  mail  brings  me 
proposals,  and  the  number  of  Americans  at  St. 
James’s  Hall  has  been  surprising.  A certain 
Mr.  Grau,  who  took  Ristori  out,  and  is  highly 
responsible,  wrote  to  me  by  the  last  mail  (for  the 
second  time)  saying  that  if  I would  give  him  a 
word  of  encouragement  he  would  come  over 
immediately  and  arrange  on  the  boldest  terms 
lor  any  number  I chose,  and  would  deposit  a 
large  sum  of  money  at  Coutts’s.  Mr.  Fields 
writes  to  me  on  behalf  of  a committee  of  private 
gentlemen  at  Boston  who  wished  for  the  credit 
of  getting  me  out,  who  desired  to  hear  the  read- 
ings and  did  not  want  j)rofit,  and  would  put  down 
as  a guarantee  ^10,000 — also  to  be  banked 
here.  Every  American  speculator  who  comes 
to  London  repairs  straight  to  Dolby,  with  similar 
proposals.  And,  thus  e.xcited,  Chappells,  the 
moment  this  last  series  was  over,  proposed  to 
treat  for  America  ! ” Upon  the  mere  question 
of  these  various  offers  he  had  little  difficulty  in 
making  up  his  mind.  If  he  went  at  all,  he  would 
go  on  his  own  account,  making  no  compact  with 
any  one.  Whether  he  should  go  at  all,  was  what 
he  had  to  determine. 

One  thing  with  his  usual  sagacity  he  saw 
clearly  enough.  He  must  make  up  his  mind 
quickly.  “ The  Presidential  election  would  be 
in  the  autumn  of  next  year.  They  are  a people 
whom  a fancy  does  not  hold  long.  They  are 
bent  upon  my  reading  there,  and  they  believe 
(on  no  foundation  whatever)  that  I am  going  to 
read  there.  If  I ever  go,  the  time  would  be 
when  the  Christmas  number  goes  to  press. 
Early  in  this  next  November.”  Every  sort  of 
enquiry  he  accordingly  set  on  foot ; and  so  far 
came  to  the  immediate  decision,  that,  if  the 
answers  left  him  no  room  to  doubt  that  a certain 
sum  might  be  realized,  he  would  go.  “ Have 
no  fear  that  anything  will  induce  me  to  make 
the  experiment,  if  I do  not  see  the  most  forcible 
reasons  for  believing  that  what  I could  get  by  it, 
added  to  what  I have  got,  would  leave  me  with 
a sufficient  fortune.  I should  be  wretched  be- 
yond expression  there.  My  small  powers  of 
description  cannot  describe  the  state  of  mind  in 
which  I should  drag  on  from  day  to  day.”  At 
the  end  of  May  he  wrote  : “ Poor  dear  Stan- 
field ! ” (our  excellent  friend  had  passed  away 
the  week  before).  “ I cannot  think  even  of  him, 
and  of  our  great  loss,  for  this  s])cctre  of  doubt 
and  indecision  that  sits  at  the  board  with  me 
and  stands  at  the  bedside.  1 am  in  a tempest- 
tossed  condition,  and  can  hardly  believe  that  I 
stand  at  bay  at  last  on  the  .'Vmerican  cpicstion. 
The  difficulty  of  determining  amitl  the  variety 


THIRD  SERIES 


of  statements  made  to  me  is  enormous,  and  you 
have  no  idea  how  heavily  the  anxiety  of  it  sits 
upon  my  soul.  Hut  the  prize  looks  so  large  !” 
One  way  at  last  seemed  to  ojren  by  which  it 
was  possible  to  get  at  some  settled  opinion. 
“Dolby  sails  for  America”  (2nd  of  July)  “on 
Saturday  the  3rd  of  August.  It  is  impossible 
to  come  to  any  reasonable  conclusion,  without 
sending  eyes  and  ears  on  the  actual  ground. 
He  will  take  out  my  MS.  for  the  Children's 
Magazine.  I hope  it  is  droll,  and  very  child- 
like ; though  the  joke  is  a grown-up  one  besides. 
You  must  try  to  like  the  pirate  story,  for  I am 
very  fond  of  it.”  The  allusion  is  to  his  pleasant 
Holiday  Romance  which  he  had  written  for  Mr. 
Fields. 

Hardly  had  Mr.  Dolby  gone  when  there  came 
tliat  which  should  have  availed  to  dissuade,  far 
more  than  any  of  the  arguments  which  continued 
to  express  my  objection  to  the  enterprise.  “ I 
am  laid  up,”  he  wrote  on  the  6th  of  August, 
“ with  another  attack  in  my  foot,  and  was  on  the 
sofa  all  last  night  in  tortures.  I cannot  bear  to 
have  the  fomentations  taken  off  for  a moment. 
I was  so  ill  with  it  on  Sunday,  and  it  looked  so 
fierce,  that  I came  up  to  Henry  Thompson.  He 
has  gone  into  the  case  heartily,  and  says  that 
tliere  is  no  doubt  the  complaint  originates  in  the 
action  of  the  shoe,  in  walking,  or  an  enlargement 
in  the  nature  of  a bunion.  Erysipelas  has  super- 
vened upon  the  injury;  and  the  object  is  to 
avoid  a gathering,  and  to  stay  the  erysipelas 
where  it  is.  Meantime  I am  on  my  back,  and 

chafing I didn’t  improve  my  foot  by 

going  down  to  Liverpool  to  see  Dolby  off,  but  I 
have  little  doubt  of  its  yielding  to  treatment,  and 
repose.”  A few  days  later  he  was  chafing  still ; 
the  accomplished  surgeon  he  consulted  having 
dropped  other  hints  that  somewhat  troubled 
him.  “ I could  not  walk  a quarter  of  a mile  to- 
night for  ;^5oo.  I make  out  so  many  reasons 
against  supposing  it  to  be  gouty  that  I realty  do 
not  think  it  is.” 

So  momentous  in  my  judgment  were  the  con- 
sequences of  the  American  journey  to  him  that 
it  seemed  right  to  preface  thus  much  of  the 
inducements  and  temptations  that  led  to  it.  My 


OE  READINGS.  357 


own  jiart  in  the  discussion  was  tliat  of  steady 
dissuasion  throughout : though  this  might  per- 
haps have  been  less  persistent  if  I could  have 
reconciled  myself  to  the  belief,  which  I never  at 
any  time  did,  that  Public  Readings  were  a 
worthy  employment  for  a man  of  his  genius. 
But  it  had  by  this  time  become  clear  to  me  that 
nothing  could  stay  the  enterprise.  The  result 
of  Mr.  Dolby’s  visit  to  America — drawn  u{)  by 
Dickens  himself  in  a paper  possessing  still  the 
interest  of  having  given  to  the  Readings  when 
he  crossed  the  Atlantic  much  of  the  form  they 
then  assumed — reached  me  when  I was  stay- 
ing at  Ross ; and  upon  it  was  founded  my  last 
argument  against  the  scheme.  This  he  re- 
ceived in  London  on  the  28th  of  September, 
on  which  day  he  thus  wrote  to  his  eldest  daugh- 
ter : “ As  I telegraphed  after  I saw  you,  I am  off 
to  Ross  to  consult  with  Mr.  Forster  and  Dolby 
together.  You  shall  hear,  either  on  Monday,  or 
by  Monday’s  post  from  London,  how  I decide 
finally.”  The  result  he  wrote  to  her  three  days 
later  : “You  will  have  had  my  telegram  that  I go 
to  America.  After  a lor^  discussion  with  Forster, 
and  consideration  of  what  is  to  be  said  on  both 
sides,  I have  decided  to  go  through  with  it. 
We  have  telegraphed  ‘ Yes  ’ to  Boston.”  Seven 
days  later  he  wrote  to  me  : “ The  Scotia  being 
full,  I do  not  sail  until  lord  mayor’s  day;  for 
which  glorious  anniversary  I have  engaged  an 
officer’s  cabin  on  deck  in  the  Cuba.  I am  not 
in  very  brilliant  spirits  at  the  prospect  before 
me,  and  am  deeply  sensible  of  your  motive  and 
reasons  for  the  line  you  have  taken ; but  I 
am  not  in  the  least  shaken  in  the  conviction 
that  I could  never  quite  have  given  up  the 
idea.” 

The  remaining  time  was  given  to  preparations ; 
on  the  2nd  of  November  there  was  a Farewell 
Banquet  in  the  Freemasons’  Hall  over  which 
Lord  Lytton  presided  ; and  on  the  9th  Dickens 
sailed  for  Boston.  Before  he  left  he  had  con- 
tributed his  part  to  the  last  of  his  Christmas 
Numbers ; all  the  writings  he  was  able  to  com- 
plete were  done ; and  the  interval  of  his  voyage 
may  be  occupied  by  a general  review  of  the 
literary  labour  of  his  life. 


Life  of  Charles  Dickens,  24.  432 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


BOOK  NINTH.— AUTHOR. 


1836 — 1870. 

I.  Dickens  as  a Novelist. 

II.  Tale  of  Two  Cities. 

III.  Great  Expectations. 

IV.  Christmas  Sketches. 


I. 

DICKENS  AS  A NOVELIST. 

1836 — 1870. 

HAT  I have  to  say  generally  of 
Dickens’s  genius  as  a writer  may 
introduce  the  notices,  which  still 
remain  to  be  given,  of  his  books 
from  The  Talc  of  Two  Cities  to  the 
time  at  which  we  have  arrived, 
leaving  Edzuin  Drood  for  mention  in  its 
jjlace ; and  these  will  be  accompanied,  as 
m former  notices  of  individual  stories,  by 
illustrations  drawn  from  his  letters  and  life.  His 
literary  work  was  so  intensely  one  with  his 
nature  that  he  is  not  separable  from  it,  and  the 
man  and  the  method  throw  a singular  light  on 
each  other.  But  some  allusion  to  what  has 
been  said  of  these  books,  by  writers  assuming  to 
speak  with  authority,  will  properly  precede  what 
has  to  be  offered  by  me ; and  I shall  preface 
this  part  of  my  task  with  the  hint  of  Carlyle, 
that  in  looking  at  a man  out  of  the  common  it 
is  good  for  common  men  to  make  sure  that  they 
“ see  ” before  they  attempt  to  “ oversee  ” him. 

Of  the  French  writer,  M.  Henri  Taine,  it  has 
before  been  remarked  that  his  inability  to  appre- 
ciate humour  is  fatal  to  his  pretensions  as  a critic 
of  the  English  novel.  But  there  is  much  that  is 
noteworthy  in  his  criticism  notwithstanding,  as 
vvell  as  remarkable  in  his  knowledge  of  our 
language ; his  position  entitles  him  to  be  heard 
without  a suspicion  of  partizanship  or  intentional 
unfairness ; whatever  the  value  of  his  opinion, 
the  elaboration  of  its  form  and  expression  is 
itself  no  common  tribute  and  what  is  said  in  it 
of  Dickens’s  handling  in  regard  to  style  and 
character,  embodies  temperately  objections 
which  have  since  been  taken  by  some  English 
critics  without  his  impartiality  and  with  less 
than  his  ability.  As  to  style  M.  Taine  does 
not  find  that  the  natural  or  simple  prevails  suffi- 
ciently. The  tone  is  too  passionate.  The 
imaginative  or  poetic  side  of  allusion  is  so  uni- 
formly dwelt  on,  that  the  descriptions  cease  to 


ALt.  24 — 58. 

V.  Our  Mutual  Friend. 

VI.  Dr.  Marigold’s  Prescriptions. 

VII.  Hints  for  Books  Written  and  Unwritten. 

VIII.  Closing  Word. 


be  subsidiary,  and  the  minute  details  of  pain  or  ' 
pleasure  wrought  out  by  them  become  active  | 
agencies  in  the  tale.  So  vivid  and  eager  is  the 
display  of  fancy  that  everything  is  borne  along 
with  it;  imaginary  objects  take  the  precision  of 
real  ones ; living  thoughts  are  controlled  by  in- 
animate things  ; the  chimes  console  the  poor  old 
ticket-porter ; the  cricket  steadies  the  rough 
carrier’s  doubts ; the  sea  waves  soothe  the  dying 
boy ; clouds,  flowers,  leaves,  play  their  several 
parts ; hardly  a form  of  matter  without  a living 
quality;  no  silent  thing  without  its  voice.  Fond- 
ling and  exaggerating  thus  what  is  occasional  in 
the  subject  of  his  criticism,  into  what  he  has  evi- 
dently at  last  persuaded  himself  is  a fixed  and 
universal  practice  with  Dickens,  M.  Taine  pro- 
ceeds to  explain  the  exuberance  by  comparing 
such  imagination  in  its  vividness  to  that  of  a 
monomaniac.  He  fails  altogether  to  apprehend 
that  property  in  Humour  which  involves  the 
feeling  of  the  subtlest  and  most  effective  analo- 
gies, and  from  which  is  drawn  the  rare  insight 
into  sympathies  between  the  nature  of  things 
and  their  attributes  or  opposites,  in  which 
Dickens’s  fancy  revelled  with  such  delight, 
'baking  the  famous  lines  which  express  the 
lunatic,  the  lover,  and  the  poet  as  “ of  Imagina-  j 
tion  all  compact,”  in  a sense  that  would  have  i 
startled  not  a little  the  great  poet  who  wrote  | 
them,  M.  Taine  places  on  the  same  level  of  | 
creative  fancy  the  phantoms  of  the  lunatic  and  j 
the  personages  of  the  artist.  Fie  exhibits  | 
Dickens  as  from  time  to  time,  in  the  several 
stages  of  his  successive  works  of  fiction,  given 
up  to  one  idea,  possessed  by  it,  seeing  nothing 
else,  treating  it  in  a hundred  lorms,  exaggerat- 
ing it,  and  so  dazzling  and  overpowering  his 
readers  with  it  that  escape  is  impossible.  This  1 
he  maintains  to  be  equally  the  effect  as  Mr.  j 
Mell  the  usher  plays  the  flute,  as  Tom  Tincli  i 
enjoys  or  exposes  his  Pecksniff,  as  the  guard 
blows  his  bugle  while  Tom  rides  to  London,  as 
Ruth  Pinch  crosses  Fountain  Court  or  makes 
the  beefsteak  pudding,  as  Jonas  Chuzzlewit 
commits  and  returns  from  the  murder,  ami  as 
the  storm  which  is  Steerforth’s  death-knell  beats 


DICKENS  .'IS 


on  the  Yarmouth  shore.  To  the  same  kind  of 
power  he  attributes  the  c.\traordinary  clearness 
with  which  the  commonest  objects  in  all  his 
books,  the  most  ordinar)^  interiors,  any  old 
house,  a parlour,  a boat,  a school,  fifty  things 
that  in  the  ordinary  tale-teller  would  pass  un- 
marked, are  made  vividly  present  and  indelible  ; 
are  brought  out  with  a strength  of  relief,  pre- 
cision, and  force,  unapproached  in  any  other- 
writer  of  prose  fiction  ; with  everything  minute 
3-et  nothing  cold,  “ with  all  the  passion  and  the 
jratience  of  the  painters  of  his  countr)-.”  And 
while  excitement  in  the  reader  is  thus  main- 
tained to  an  extent  incompatible  with  a natural 
style  or  simple  narrative,  M.  Taine  yet  thinks 
he  has  discovered,  in  this  very  power  of  awaken- 
ing a feverish  sensibility  and  moving  laughter  or 
tears  at  the  comi-nonest  things,  the  source  of 
Dickens’s  astonishing  popularity.  Ordinary 
people,  he  says,  are  so  tired  of  what  is  always 
around  them,  and  take  in  so  little  of  the  detail 
that  makes  up  their  lives,  that  rvhen,  all  of  a 
sudden,  there  comes  a man  to  make  these  things 
interesting,  and  turn  them  into  objects  of  admi- 
ration, tenderness,  or  terror,  the  effect  is  enchant- 
ment. Without  leaving  their  arm-chairs  or  their 
firesides,  they  find  themselves  trembling  with 
emotion,  their  eyes  are  filled  with  tears,  their 
cheeks  are  broad  with  laughter,  and,  in  the  dis- 
covery they  have  thus  made  that  they  too  can 
suffer,  love,  and  feel,  their  very  existence  seems 
doubled  to  them.  It  had  not  occurred  to  M. 
Taine  that  to  effect  so  much  might  seem  to 
leave  little  not  achieved. 

So  far  from  it,  the  critic  had  satisfied  himself 
that  such  a power  of  style  must  be  adverse  to  a 
just  delineation  of  character.  Dickens  is  not 
calm  enough,  he  says,  to  penetrate  to  the  bottom 
of  what  he  is  dealing  with.  He  takes  sides  with 
it  as  friend  or  enemy,  laughs  or  cries  over  it, 
makes  it  odious  or  touching,  repulsive  or  attrac- 
tive, and  is  too  vehement  and  not  enough 
inquisitive  to  paint  a likeness.  His  imagination 
is  at  once  too  vivid  and  not  sufficiently  large. 
Its  tenacious  quality,  and  the  force  and  concen- 
tration With  which  his  thoughts  penetrate  into 
the  details  he  desires  to  apprehend,  form  limits 
to  his  knowledge,  confine  him  to  single  traits, 
and  prevent  his  sounding  all  the  depths  of  a 
soul.  He  seizes  on  one  attitude,  trick,  expres- 
sion, or  grimace  ; sees  nothing  else  ; and  keeps 
it  always  unchanged.  Mercy  Pecksniff  laughs 
at  every  word,  Mark  Tapley  is  nothing  but  jolly, 
Mrs.  Gamp  talks  incessantly  of  Mrs.  Harris,  Mr. 
Chillip  is  invariably  timid,  and  Mr.  Micawber  is 
never  tired  of  emphasizing  his  phrases  or  passing 
with  ludicrous  brusqueness  from  joy  to  grief. 


A NOVELIST.  359 


Each  is  the  incarnation  of  some  one  vice,  virtue, 
or  absurdity;  whereof  the  display  is  frequent, 
invariable,  and  exclusive.  The  language  I am 
using  condenses  with  strict  accuracy  what  is  said 
by  M.  Taine,  and  has  been  repeated  ad  nauseam 
by  others,  professing  admirers  as  well  as  open 
detractors.  Mrs.  Gamp  and  Mr.  Micawber,  who 
belong  to  the  first  rank  of  humorous  creation, 
are  thus  without  another  word  dismissed  by  the 
French  critic ; and  he  shows  no  consciousness 
whatever  in  doing  it,  of  that  very  fault  in  himself 
for  which  Dickens  is  condemned,  of  mistaking 
lively  observation  for  real  insight. 

He  has  however  much  concession  in  reserve, 
being  satisfied,  by  his  observation  of  England, 
that  it  is  to  the  people  for  whom  Dickens  wrote 
his  deficiencies  in  art  are  mainly  due.  The  taste 
of  his  nation  had  prohibited  him  from  represent- 
ing character  in  a grand  style.  The  English 
require  too  much  morality  and  religion  for  genuine 
art.  They  made  him  treat  love  not  as  holy  and 
sublime  in  itself,  but  as  subordinate  to  marriage ; 
forced  him  to  uphold  society  and  the  laws, 
against  nature  and  enthusiasm ; and  compelled 
him  to  display,  in  painting  such  a seduction 
as  in  Copperficld,  not  the  progress,  ardour,  and 
intoxication  of  passion,  but  only  the  misery, 
remorse,  and  despair.  The  result  of  such  sur- 
face religion  and  morality,  combined  with  the 
trading  spirit,  M.  Taine  continues,  leads  to  so 
many  national  forms  of  hypocrisy,  and  of  greed 
as  well  as  worship  for  money,  as  to  justify  this 
great  writer  of  the  nation  in  his  frequent  choice 
of  those  vices  for  illustration  in  his  tales.  But 
his  defect  of  method  again  comes  into  play.  He 
does  not  deal  with  vices  in  the  manner  of  a 
physiologist,  feeling  a sort  of  love  for  them,  and 
delighting  in  their  finer  traits  as  if  they  were 
virtues.  He  gets  angry  over  them.  (I  do 
not  interrupt  M.  Taine,  but  surely  to  take  one 
instance  illustrative  of  raanj-,  Dickens’s  enjoy- 
ment in  dealing  with  Pecksniff  is  as  manifest  as 
that  he  never  ceases  all  the  time  to  make  him 
very  hateful.)  He  cannot,  like  Balzac,  leave 
morality  out  of  account,  and  treat  a passion, 
however  loathsome,  as  that  great  tale-teller  did, 
from  the  only  safe  ground  of  belief,  that  it  is  a 
force,  and  that  force  of  whatever  kind  is  good. 
It  is  essential  to  an  artist  of  that  superior  grade, 
M.  Taine  holds,  no  matter  how  vile  his  subject, 
to  show  its  education  and  temptations,  the  form 
of  brain  or  habits  of  mind  that  have  reinforced 
the  natural  tendency,  to  deduce  it  from  its  cause, 
to  place  its  circumstances  around  it,  and  to 
develop  its  effects  to  their  extremes.  In  hand- 
ling such  and  such  a capital  miser,  hypocrite, 
debauchee,  or  what  not,  he  should  never  trouble 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS, 


himsell’  about  the  evil  consequences  of  the  vices. 
He  should  be  too  much  of  a philosopher  and 
artist  to  remember  that  he  is  a respectable 
citizen.  But  this  is  what  Dickens  never  forgets, 
and  he  renounces  all  beauties  requiring  so  cor- 
rupt a soil.  M.  Taine’s  conclusion  upon  the 
whole  nevertheless  is,  that  though  those  triumphs 
of  art  which  become  the  property  of  all  the  earth 
have  not  been  his,  much  has  yet  been  achieved 
by  him.  Out  of  his  unequalled  observation,  his 
satire,  and  his  sensibility,  has  proceeded  a series 
of  original  characters  existing  nowhere  but  in 
England,  which  will  exhibit  to  future  genera- 
tions not  the  record  of  his  own  genius  only,  but 
that  of  his  country  and  his  times. 

Between  the  judgment  thus  passed  by  the 
distinguished  French  lecturer,  and  the  later 
comment  to  be  now  given  from  an  English 
critic,  certainly  not  in  arrest  of  that  judgment, 
may  fitly  come  a passage  from  one  of  Dickens’s 
letters  saying  something  of  the  limitations  placed 
upon  the  artist  in  England.  It  may  read  like  a 
quasi-confession  of  one  of  M.  Taine’s  charges, 
though  it  was  not  written  with  reference  to  his  ‘ 
own  but  to  one  of  Scott’s  later  novels.  “ Simi-  i 
larly”  (15th  of  August  1856)  “ I have  always  a 
fine  feeling  of  the  honest  state  into  which  we 
have  got,  when  some  smooth  gentleman  says  to 
me  or  to  some  one  else  when  I am  by,  how  odd 
it  is  that  the  hero  of  an  English  book  is  always 
uninteresting — too  good,  not  natural,  &c.  I am 
continually  hearing  this  of  Scott  from  English 
people  here,  who  pass  their  lives  with  Balzac 
and  Sand.  But  O my  smootlr  friend,  what  a 
shining  impostor  you  must  tliink  yourself  and 
what  an  ass  you  must  think  me,  when  you  sup- 
pose that  by  putting  a brazen  face  upon  it  you 
can  blot  out  of  my  knowledge  the  fact  that  this  j 
same  unnatural  young  gentleman  (if  to  be  de- 
cent is  to  be  necessarily  unnatural),  whom  you 
meet  in  those  other  books  and  in  mine,  tmist  be  | 
presented  to  you  in  that  unnatural  aspect  by 
reason  of  your  morality,  and  is  not  to  have,  I 
will  not  say  any  of  the  indecencies  you  like,  but 
not  even  any  of  the  experiences,  trials,  perplexi-  | 
ties,  and  confusions  inseparable  from  the  making  I 
or  unmaking  of  all  men  ! ” I 

M.  Taine’s  criticism  was  written  three  or  four 
years  before  Dickens’s  death,  and  to  the  same  ! 
date  belong  some  notices  in  England  which 
adopted  more  or  less  the  tone  of  depreciation  ; 
conceding  the  great  effects  achieved  by  the 
writer,  but  disputing  the  quality  and  value  of  , 
his  art.  For  it  is  incident  to  all  such  criticism 
of  Dickens  to  be  of  necessity  accompanied  by  | 
the  admission,  that  no  writer  lias  so  completely  1 
impressed  himself  on  the  time  in  which  he  lived,  j 


that  he  has  made  his  characters  a part  of  litera- 
ture, and  that  his  readers  are  the  world. 

But,  a little  more  than  a year  after  his  death, 
a paper  was  published  of  which  the  object  was 
to  reconcile  such  seeming  inconsistency,  to  ex- 
pound the  inner  meanings  of  “ Dickens  in  rela- 
tion to  Criticism,”  and  to  show  that,  though  he 
had  a splendid  genius  and  a wonderful  imagina- 
tion, yet  the  objectors  were  to  be  excused  who 
called  him  only  a stagy  sentimentalist  and  a 
clever  caricaturist.  This  critical  essay  appeared 
in  the  Fortnightly  Review  for  February  1872, 
with  the  signature  of  Mr.  George  Henry  Lewes  ; 
and  the  pretentious  airs  of  the  performance, 
with  its  prodigious  professions  of  candour,  force 
upon  me  the  painful  task  of  stating  what  it 
really  is.  During  Dickens’s  life,  especially  when 
any  fresh  novelist  could  be  found  available  for 
strained  comparison  with  him,  there  were  plenty 
of  attempts  to  write  him  down  : but  the  trick  of 
studied  depreciation  was  never  carried  so  far  or 
made  so  odious  as  in  this  case  by  intolerable 
assumptions  of  an  indulgent  superiority  ; and  to 
repel  it  in  such  a form  once  for  all  is  due  to 
Dickens’s  memory. 

The  paper  begins  by  the  usual  concessions — 
that  he  was  a writer  of  vast  popularity,  that  he 
delighted  no  end  of  people,  that  his  admirers' 
were  in  all  classes  and  all  countries,  that  he 
stirred  the  sympathy  of  masses  not  easily  reached 
through  literature  and  always  to  healthy  emo- 
tion, that  he  impressed  a new  direction  on 
popular  writing,  and  modified  the  literature  cf 
his  age  in  its  spirit  no  less  than  its  form.  The 
very  splendour  of  these  successes,  on  the  other 
hand,  so  deepened  the  shadow  of  his  failures, 
that  to  many  there  was  nothing  but  darkness. 
Was  it  unnatural  ? Could  greatness  be  properly 
ascribed,  by  the  fastidious,  to  a writer  whose 
defects  were  so  glaring,  exaggerated,  untrue, 
fantastic,  and  melodramatic  ? Might  they  not 
fairly  insist  on  such  defects  as  outweighing  all 
positive  qualities,  and  speak  of  him  with  con- 
descending patronage  or  sneering  irritation  ? 
Why,  very  often  such  men,  though  their  talk 
would  be  scasoped  with  ejuotations  from,  and 
allusions  to,  his  writings,  and  though  they  would 
lay  aside  their  most  favourite  books  to  bur)' 
themselves  in  his  new  “ number,”  had  been  ob- 
served by  this  critic  to  be  as  niggardly  in  their 
praise  of  him  as  they  were  lavish  in  their  scorn. 
He  actually  heard  “ a 7'cry  distinguished  man," 
on  one  occasion,  e.\])rcss  measureless  contempt 
for  Dickens,  and  a few  minutes  afterwards 
admit  that  Dickens  had  “entered  into  his  lile.” 
And  so  the  critic  betook  himself  to  the  task  of 
reconciling  this  immense  popularity  and  this 


DICKENS  AS 


critical  contempt,  which  he  does  after  the  follow- 
ing manner. 

He  says  that  Dickens  was  so  great  in  “fun’' 
(humour  he  does  not  concede  to  him  anywhere) 
that  Fielding  and  Smollett  are  small  in  com- 
parison, but  that  this  would  only  have  been  a 
passing  amusement  for  the  world  if  he  had  not 
been  “ gifted  with  an  imagination  of  marvellous 
vividness,  and  an  emotional  sympathetic  nature 
capable  of  furnishing  that  imagination  with  ele- 
ments of  universal  power.”  To  people  who 
think  that  words  should  carry  some  meaning  it 
might  seem,  that,  if  only  a man  could  be 
“ gifted  ” with  all  this,  nothing  more  need  be 
said.  With  marvellous  imagination,  and  a na- 
ture to  endow  it  with  elements  of  universal 
power,  what  secrets  of  creative  art  could  pos- 
sibly be  closed  to  him  ? But  this  is  a reckoning 
w'ithout  your  philosophical  critic.  The  vividness 
of  Dickens’s  imagination  M.  Taine  found  to  be 
simply  monomaniacal,  and  his  follower  finds  it 
to  be  merely  hallucinative.  Not  the  less  he 
heaps  upon  it  epithet  after  epithet.  He  talks  of 
its  irradiating  splendour ; calls  it  glorious  as 
well  as  imperial  and  marvellous ; and,  to  make 
us  quite  sure  he  is  not  with  these  fine  phrases 
puffing-off  an  inferior  article,  he  interposes  that 
such  imagination  is  “ common  to  all  great 
writers.”  Luckily  for  great  writers  in  general, 
however,  their  creations  are  of  the  old,  immortal, 
common-place  sort;  whereas  Dickens  in  his 
creative  processes,  according  to  this  philosophy 
of  criticism,  is  tied  up  hard  and  fast  within  hal- 
lucinative limits. 

“ He  was,”  we  are  told,  “ a seer  of  visions.” 
Amid  silence  and  darkness,  we  are  assured,  he 
heard  voices  and  saw  objects ; of  which  the 
revived  impressions  to  him  had  the  vividness  of 
sensations,  and  the  images  his  mind  created  in 
e.xplanation  of  them  had  the  coercive  force  of 
realities  ; so  that  what  he  brought  into  existence 
in  this  w'ay,  no  matter  how  fantastic  and  un- 
real, was  (whatever  this  may  mean)  universally 
intelligible.  “ His  types  established  themselves 
in  the  public  mind  like  personal  experiences. 
Their  falsity  was  unnoticed  in  the  blaze  of  their 
illumiination.  Every  humbug  seemed  a Peck- 
sniff, every  jovial  improvident  a Micawber,  every 
stinted  serving-wench  a Marchioness.”  The 
critic,  indeed,  saw  through  it  all,  but  he  gave  his 
warnings  in  vain.  “ In  vain  critical  reflection 
showed  these  figures  to  be  merely  masks;  not 
characters,  but  personified  characteristics  ; cari- 
catures and  distortions  of  human  nature.  The 
vividness  of  their  presentation  triumphed  over 
reflection  ; their  creator  managed  to  communi- 
cate to  the  public  his  own  unhesitating  belief.” 


A NOVELIST.  361 

What,  however,  is  the  public  ? Mr.  Lewes  goes 
on  to  relate.  “ Give  a child  a wooden  horse, 
with  hair  for  mane  and  tail,  and  wafer-spots  for 
colouring,  he  will  never  be  disturbed  by  the  fact 
that  this  horse  does  not  move  its  legs  but  runs 
on  wheels  ; and  this  wooden  horse,  which  he  can 
handle  and  draw,  is  believed  in  more  than  a 
pictured  horse  by  a Wouvermanns  or  an  Ans- 
dell  (!  !)  It  may  be  said  of  Dickens’s  human 
figures  that  they  too  are  wooden,  and  run  on 
wheels  ; but  these  are  details  which  scarcely  dis- 
turb the  belief  of  admirers.  Just  as  the  wooden 
horse  is  brought  within  the  range  of  the  child’s 
emotions,  and  dramatizing  tendencies,  when  he 
can  handle  and  draw  it,  so  Dickens’s  figures  are 
brought  within  the  range  of  the  reader’s  inter- 
ests, and  receive  from  these  interests  a sudden 
illumination,  when  they  are  the  puppets  of  a drama 
every  incident  of  which  appeals  to  the  sympathies.” 
Risum  teneatis  1 But  the  smile  is  grim  that 
rises  to  the  face  of  one  to  whom  the  relations  of 
the  writer  and  his  critic,  while  both  writer  and 
critic  lived,  are  known  ; and  who  sees  the  drift 
of  now  scattering  such  rubbish  as  this  over  an 
established  fame.  As  it  fares  with  the  imagina- 
tion that  is  imperial,  so  with  the  drama  every 
incident  of  which  appeals  to  the  sympathies. 
The  one  being  explained  by  hallucination,  and 
the  other  by  the  wooden  horse,  plenty  of  fine 
words  are  to  spare  by  which  contempt  may  re- 
ceive the  show  of  candour.  When  the  charac- 
ters in  a play  are  puppets,  and  the  audiences  of 
the  theatre  fools  or  children,  no  wise  man  for- 
feits his  wisdom  by  proceeding  to  admit  that  the 
successful  playwright,  “ with  a fine  felicity  of 
instinct,”  seized  upon  situations,  for  his  wooden 
figures, having  “irresistible  holdover  the  domestic 
affections ; ” that,  through  his  puppets,  he  spoke 
“in  the  mother-tongue  of  the  heart;”  that,  with  his 
spotted  horses  and  so  forth,  he  “ painted  the  life 
he  knew  and  everyone  knew ;”  that  he  painted,  of 
course,  nothing  ideal  or  heroic,  and  that  the  world 
of  thought  and  passion  lay  beyond  his  horizon ; 
but  that,  with  his  artificial  performers  and  his 
feeble-witted  audiences,  “all  the  resources  of  the 
bourgeois  epic  were  in  his  grasp ; the  joys  and 
pains  of  childhood,  the  petty  tyrannies  of  ignoble 
natures,  the  genial  pleasantries  of  happy  natures ; 
the  life  of  the  poor,  the  struggles  of  the  street 
and  back  parlour,  the  insolence  of  office,  the 
sharp  social  contrasts,  east  wind  and  Christmas 
jollity,  hunger,  misery,  and  hot  punch” — “ so 
that  even  critical  spectators  who  complained  that 
these  broadly  painted  pictures  were  artistic 
daubs  could  not  wholly  resist  their  effective  sug- 
gestiveness.” Since  Trinculo  and  Caliban  were 
under  one  cloak,  there  has  surely  been  no  such 


362  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


delicate  monster  with  two  voices.  “ His  for- 
ward voice,  now,  is  to  speak  well  of  his  friend  ; 
his  backward  voice  is  to  utter  foul  speeches  and 
to  detract.”  One  other  of  the  foul  speeches  I 
may  not  overlook,  since  it  contains  what  is 
alleged  to  be  a personal  revelation  of  Dickens 
made  to  the  critic  himself. 

“ When  one  thinks  of  Micawber  always  pre- 
senting himself  in  the  same  situation,  moved 
with  the  same  springs  and  uttering  the  same 
sounds,  always  confident  of  something  turning 
up,  always  crushed  and  rebounding,  always 
making  punch — and  his  wife  always  declaring 
she  will  never  part  from  him,  always  referring  to 
his  talents  and  her  family — when  one  thinks  of 
^ the  ‘catchwords’  personified  as  characters,  one 
is  reminded  of  the  frogs  whose  brains  have  been 
taken  out  for  physiological  purposes,  and  whose 
actions  henceforth  want  the  distinctive  pecu- 
liarity of  organic  action,  that  of  fluct-uating  spon- 
taneity.” Such  was  that  sheer  inability  of 
Dickens,  indeed,  to  comprehend  this  complexity 
of  the  organism,  that  it  quite  accounted,  in  the 
view  of  this  philosopher,  for  all  his  unnaturalness, 
for  the  whole  of  his  fantastic  people,  and  for  the 
strained  dialogues  of  which  his  books  are  made 
up,  painfully  resembling  in  their  incongruity 
“ the  absurd  and  eager  expositions  which  insane 
patients  pour  into  the  listener’s  ear  when  detail- 
ing their  wrongs,  or  their  schemes.  Dickens 
once  declared  to  me,”  Mr.  Lewes  continues, 
“ that  every  word  said  by  his  characters  was 
distinctly  heard  by  him ; I was  at  first  not  a 
little  puzzled  to  account  for  the  fact  that  he 
could  hear  language  so  utterly  unlike  the  lan- 
guage of  real  feeling,  and  not  be  aware  of  its 
preposterousness ; but  the  surprise  vanished 
when  I thought  of  the  phenomena  of  hallucina- 
tion.” Wonderful  sagacity  ! to  unravel  easily 
such  a bewildering  “puzzle”!  And  so  to  the 
close.  Between  the  uncultivated  whom  Dickens 
moved,  and  the  cultivated  he  failed  to  move ; 
between  the  power  that  so  worked  in  delf 
as  to  stir  the  universal  heart,  and  the  com- 
monness that  could  not  meddle  with  porcelain 
or  aspire  to  any  noble  clay ; the  pitiful  see-saw 
is  continued  up  to  the  final  sentence,  where,  in 
the  impartial  critic’s  eagerness  to  discredit  even 
the  value  of  the  emotion  awakened  in  such  men 
as  Jeffrey  by  such  creations  as  Little  Nell,  he 
reverses  all  he  has  been  saying  about  the  culti- 
vated and  uncultivated,  and  presents  to  us  a 
cultivated  philosopher,  in  his  ignorance  of  the 
stage,  applauding  an  actor  whom  every  uncul- 
tivated playgoing  apprentice  despises  as  stagey. 

I But  the  bold  stroke  just  exhibited,  of  bringing 
j forward  Dickens  himself  in  the  actual  crisis  of 


one  of  his  fits  of  hallucination,  requires  an  addi- 
tional word. 

To  establish  the  hallucinative  theory,  he  is 
said  on  one  occasion  to  have  declared  to  the 
critic  that  every  word  uttered  by  his  characters 
was  distinctly  heard  by  him  before  it  was  written 
down.  Such  an  averment,  not  credible  for  a 
moment  as  thus  made,  indeed  simply  not  true  to 
the  extent  described,  may  yet  be  accepted  in 
the  limited  and  quite  different  sense  which  a 
passage  in  one  of  Dickens’s  letters  gives  to  it. 
All  writers  of  genius  to  whom  their  art  has  be- 
come as  a second  nature,  will  be  found  capable 
of  doing  upon  occasion  what  the  vulgar  may 
think  to  be  “ hallucination,”  but  hallucination 
will  never  account  for.  After  Scott  began  the 
Bride  of  Lammermoor  he  had  one  of  his  terrible 
seizures  of  cramp,  yet  during  his  torment  he 
dictated  that  fine  novel ; and  when  he  rose  from 
his  bed,  and  the  published  book  was  placed  in 
his  hands,  “he  did  not,”  James  Ballantyne  ex- 
plicitly assured  Lockhart,  “ recollect  one  single 
incident,  character,  or  conversation  it  con- 
tained.” When  Dickens  was  under  the  greatest 
trial  of  his  life,  and  illness  and  sorrow  were  con- 
tending for  the  mastery  over  him,  he  thus  wrote 
to  me.  “ Of  my  distress  I will  say  no  more 
than  that  it  has  borne  a terrible,  frightful,  hor- 
rible proportion  to  the  quickness  of  the  gifts 
you  remind  me  of.  But  may  I not  be  forgiven 
for  thinking  it  a wonderful  testimony  to  my 
being  made  for  my  art,  that  when,  in  the  midst 
of  this  trouble  and  pain,  I sit  down  to  my  book, 
some  beneficent  power  shows  it  all  to  me,  and 
tempts  me  to  be  interested,  and  I don’t  invent  it 
— really  do  not — but  see  it,  and  write  it  down. 
....  It  is  only  when  it  all  fades  away  and  is 
gone,  that  I begin  to  suspect  that  its  momentary 
relief  has  cost  me  something.” 

Whatever  view  may  be  taken  of  the  man  who 
wrote  those  words,  he  had  the  claim  to  be 
judged  by  reference  to  the  highest  models  in 
the  art  which  he  studied.  In  the  literature  of 
his  time,  from  1836  to  1870,  he  held  the  most 
conspicuous  place,  and  his  claim  to  the  most 
popular  one  in  the  literature  of  fiction  was  by 
common  consent  admitted.  Lie  obtained  this 
rank  by  the  sheer  force  of  his  genius,  unhelpcd 
in  any  way,  and  he  licld  it  witliout  ilispute.  As 
he  began  he  closed.  After  he  had  written  for 
only  four  months,  and  after  he  had  written  in- 
cessantly for  four  and  thirty  years,  he  was  of  all 
living  writers  the  most  widely  read.  It  is  of 
course  quite  possible  that  such  popularity  might 
imply  rather  littleness  in  his  contemporaries 
than  greatness  in  him  : but  his  books  are  the 
test  to  judge  by.  Each  thus  far,  as  it  appeared. 


DICKENS  AS 


has  had  notice  in  these  pages  for  its  illustration 
i ‘ of  his  life,  or  of  his  mothotl  of  work,  or  of  the 
variety  and  versatility  in  the  manifestations  of 
1 : his  power.  But  his  latest  books  remain  still  for 
: notice,  and  will  properly  suggest  what  is  farther 
j to  be  said  of  his  general  place  in  literature. 

His  leading  quality  was  Humour.  It  has  no 
* mention  in  either  of  the  criticisms  cited,  but  it 
i wa-s  his  highest  faculty ; and  it  accounts  for  his 
! magnificent  successes,  as  well  as  for  his  not  in- 
i ‘ frequent  failures,  in  characteristic  delineation. 

1 He  was  conscious  of  this  himself.  Five  years 
! ■ before  he  died,  a great  and  generous  brother 
\ ' artist.  Lord  L}-tton,  amid  much  ungrudging 
praise  of  a work  he  was  then  publishing,  asked 
him  to  consider,  as  to  one  part  of  it,  if  the 
modesties  of  art  were  not  a little  overpassed. 

“ I cannot  tell  you,”  he  replied,  “ how  highly  I 
prize  your  letter,  or  with  what  pride  and  plea- 
sure it  inspires  me.  Nor  do  I for  a moment 
question  its  criticism  (if  objection  so  generous 
and  easy  may  be  called  by  that  hard  name) 
otherwise  than  on  this  ground — that  I work 
slowly  and  with  great  care,  and  never  give  way 
to  my  invention  recklessly,  but  constantly  re- 
strain it ; and  that  I think  it  is  my  infirmity  to  \ 
<»^fancy  or  perceive  relations  in  things  which  are  \ 
not  apparent  generally.  Also,  I have  such  an 
inexpressible  enjoyment  of  what  I see  in  a droll 
light,  that  I dare  say  I pet  it  as  if  it  were  a 
spoilt  child.  This  is  all  I have  to  offer  in  arrest 
of  judgment.”  To  perceive  relations  in  things 
which  are  not  apparent  generally,  is  one  of  those 
exquisite  properties  of  humour  by  which  are  dis- 
covered the  affinities  between  the  high  and  the 
low,  the  attractive  and  the  repulsive,  the  rarest 
things  and  things  of  every  day,  which  bring  us 
all  upon  the  level  of  a common  humanity.  It 
is  this  which  gives  humour  an  immortal  touch 
that  does  not  belong  of  necessity  to  pictures, 
even  the  most  exquisite,  of  mere  character  or 
manners;  the  property  which  in  its  highest 
aspects  Carlyle  so  subtly  described  as  a sort  of 
inverse  sublimity,  exalting  into  our  affections  what 
is  below  us  as  the  other  draws  down  into  our 
; affections  what  is  above  us.  But  it  has  a danger 
which  Dickens  also  hints  at,  and  into  which  he 
often  fell.  All  humour  has  in  it,  is  indeed 
identical  with,  rvhat  ordinary  people  are  apt  to 
call  exaggeration ; but  there  is  an  excess  beyond 
the  allowable  even  here,  and  to  “ pet”  or  mag- 
nify out  of  proper  bounds  its  sense  of  what  is 
droll,  is  to  put  the  merely  grotesque  in  its  place. 
What  might  have  been  overlooked  in  a writer 
I with  no  uncommon  faculty  of  invention,  was 
i thrown  into  overpowering  prominence  by  Dick- 
I ens’s  wealth  of  fancy ; and  a splendid  excess 


yl  NOVELIST.  363 


of  his  genius  came  to  be  objected  to  as  its  in- 
tegral and  essential  quality. 

It  cannot  be  said  to  have  had  any  place  in 
his  earlier  books.  Flis  powers  were  not  at  their 
highest  and  the  humour  was  less  fine  and  subtle, 
but  there  was  no  such  objection  to  be  taken. 
No  misgiving  interrupted  the  enjoyment  of  the 
wonderful  freshness  of  animal  spirits  in  Pick- 
ivick ; but  beneath  its  fun,  laughter,  and  light- 
heartedness were  indications  of  ability  of  the 
first  rank  in  the  delineation  of  character.  Some 
caricature  was  in  the  plan  ; but  as  the  circle  of 
people  widened  beyond  the  cockney  club,  and 
the  delightful  oddity  of  Mr.  Pickwick  took  more 
of  an  independent  existence,  a different  method 
revealed  itself,  nothing  appeared  beyond  the 
exaggerations  permissible  to  humorous  comedy, 
and  the  art  was  seen  which  can  combine  traits 
vividly  true  to  particular  men  or  women  withf 
propensities  common  to  all  mankind.  This  has 
its  highest  expression  in  Fielding  : but  even  the 
first  of  Dickens’s  books  showed  the  same  kind 
of  mastery ; and,  by  the  side  of  its  life-like 
middle-class  people  universally  familiar,  there 
was  one  figure  before  seen  by  none  but  at  once 
knowable  by  all,  delightful  for  the  surprise  it 
gave  by  its  singularity  and  the  pleasure  it  gave 
by  its  truth ; and,  though  short  of  the  highest  in 
this  form  of  art,  taking  rank  with  the  class  in 
which  live  everlastingly  the  dozen  unique  inven- 
tions that  have  immortalized  the  English  novel. 
The  groups  in  Oliver  Twist,  Fagin  and  his 
pupils,  Sikes  and  Nancy,  Mr.  Bumble  and  his 
parish-boy,  belong  to  the  same  period ; when 
Dickens  also  began  those  pathetic  delineations 
that  opened  to  the  neglected,  the  poor,  and  the 
fallen,  a world  of  compassion  and  tenderness. 
Yet  I think  it  was  not  until  the  third  book, 
Nickleby,  that  he  began  to  have  his  place  as  a 
writer  conceded  to  him ; and  that  he  ceased  to 
be  regarded  as  a mere  phenomenon  or  marvel 
of  fortune,  who  had  achieved  success  by  any 
other  means  than  that  of  deserving  it,  and  who 
challenged  no  criticism  better  worth  the  name 
than  such  as  he  has  received  from  the  Fort- 
nightly reviewer.  It  is  to  be  added  to  what 
before  was  said  of  Nickleby,  that  it  established 
beyond  dispute  his  mastery  of  dialogue,  or  that 
power  of  making  characters  real  existences,  not 
by  describing  them  but  by  letting  them  describe 
themselves,  which  belongs  only  to  story-tellers 
of  the  first  rank.  Dickens  never  excelled  the 
easy  handling  of  the  subordinate  groups  in  this 
novel,  and  he  never  repeated  its  mistakes  in  the 
direction  of  aristocratic  or  merely  polite  and  dis- 
sipated life.  It  displayed  more  than  before  of 
his  humour  on  the  tragic  side;  and,  in  close 


, ,^iv,  ^ .yi 

'.V-  ' 


364  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


connection  with  its  affecting  scenes  of  starved 
and  deserted  childhood,  were  placed  those  con- 
trasts of  miser  and  spendthrift,  of  greed  and 
generosity,  of  hypocrisy  and  simple-heartedness, 
which  he  handled  in  later  books  with  greater 
force  and  fulness,  but  of  which  the  first  formal 
expression  was  here.  It  was  his  first  general 
picture,  so  to  speak,  of  tlie  character  and  man- 
ners of  his  time,  which  it  was  the  design  more 
or  less  of  all  his  books  to  exhibit ; and  it  suffers 
by  comparison  with  his  later  productions,  be- 
cause the  humour  is  not  to  the  same  degree 
enriched  by  imagination ; but  it  is  free  from  the 
not  infrequent  excess  into  which  that  supreme 
gift  also  tempted  its  possessor.  None  of  the 
tales  is  more  attractive  throughout,  and  on  the 
whole  it  was  a step  in  advance  even  of  the 
stride  previously  taken.  Nor  was  the  gain  lost 
in  the  succeeding  story  of  the  Old  Curiosity 
Shop.  The  humorous  traits  of  Mrs.  Nickleby 
could  hardly  be  surpassed : but,  in  Dick  Swivel- 
ler  and  the  Marchioness,  there  was  a subtlety 
and  lightness  of  touch  that  led  to  finer  issues ; 
and  around  Little  Nell  and  her  fortunes,  sur- 
passingly touching  and  beautifid,  let  criticism 
object  what  it  will,  were  gathered  some  small 
characters  that  had  a deeper  intention  and  more 
imaginative  insight,  than  anything . yet  done. 
Strokes  of  this  kind  rvere  also  observable  in  the 
hunted  life  of  the  murderer  in  Barnaby  Fudge; 
and  his  next  book,  Chuzzlewit,  was,  as  it  still 
remains,  one  of  his  greatest  achievements.  Even 
so  brief  a retrospect  of  the  six  opening  years  of 
Dickens’s  literary  labour  will  help  to  a clearer 
judgment  of  the  work  of  the  twenty-eight  more 
years  that  remained  to  him. 

I'o  the  special  observations  already  made  on 
the  series  of  stories  which  followed  the  return 
from  America,  Chuzzlewit,  Dombey,  Copperfield, 
and  Bleak  House,  in  which  attention  has  been 
directed  to  the  higher  purpose  and  more  ima- 
ginative treatment  that  distinguished  them,  a 
general  remark  is  to  be  added.  Though  the 
range  of  character  they  traverse  is  not  wide,  it  is 
surrounded  by  a fertility  of  invention  and  illus- 
tration without  example  in  any  previous  novel- 
ist ; and  it  is  represented  in  these  books,  so  to 
speak,  by  a number  and  variety  of  existences 
sufficiently  real  to  have  taken  places  as  among 
the  actual  people  of  the  world.  Could  half  as 
many  known  and  universally  recognisable  men 
and  women  be  selected  out  of  one  story,  by  any 
other  prose  writer  of  the  first  rank,  as  at  once 
rise  to  the  mind  from  one  of  tlie  masterpieces  of 
Dickens?  So  difficult  of  dispute  is  this,  that  as 
much  perhaps  will  be  admitted;  but  then  it  will 
be  added,  if  the  reply  is  by  a critic  of  the  school 


burlesqued  by  Mr.  Lewes,  that  after  all  they  are 
not  individual  or  special  men  and  women  so 
much  as  general  impersonations  of  men  and 
women,  abstract  types  made  up  of  telling  catch- 
words or  surface  traits,  though  with  such  accu- 
mulation upon  them  of  a wonderful  wealth  of 
humorous  illustration,  itself  filled  with  minute 
and  accurate  knowledge  of  life,  that  the  real 
nakedness  of  the  land  of  character  is  hidden. 
Well,  what  can  be  rejoined  to  this,  but  that  the 
poverty  or  richness  of  any  territory  worth  survey 
will  for  the  most  part  lie  in  the  kind  of  observa- 
tion brought  to  it.  There  was  no  finer  observer 
than  Johnson  of  the  manners  of  his  time,  and 
he  protested  of  their  greatest  delineator  that  he 
knew  only  the  shell  of  life.  Another  of  his  re- 
marks, after  a fashion  followed  by  the  criticizers. 
of  Dickens,  places  Fielding  below  one  of  his 
famous  contemporaries ; but  who  will  not  now 
be  eager  to  reverse  such  a comparison,  as  that 
Fielding  tells  you  correctly  enough  what  o’clock 
it  is  by  looking  at  the  face  of  the  dial,  but  that 
Richardson  shows  you  how  the  -watch  is  made  ? 
There  never  was  a subtler  or  a more  sagacious 
observer  than  Fielding,  or  who  better  deserved 
what  is  generously  said  of  him  by  Smollett,  that 
he  painted  the  characters  and  ridiculed  the 
follies  of  life  with  equal  strength,  humour,  and 
propriety.  But  might  it  not  be  said  of  him,  as 
of  Dickens,  that  his  range  of  character  was 
limited ; and  that  his  method  of  proceeding 
from  a central  idea  in  all  his  leading  people, 
exposed  him  equally  to  the  charge  of  now  and 
then  putting  human  nature  itself  in  place  of  the 
individual  who  should  only  be  a small  section  of 
it  ? This  is  in  fact  but  another  shape  of  what  I 
have  expressed  on  a former  page,  that  what  a 
character,  drawn  by  a master,  will  roughly  pre- 
sent upon  its  surface,  is  frequently  such  as  also 
to  satisfy  its  more  subtle  requirements  ; and  that 
when  only  the  salient  points  or  sharper  promi- 
nences are  thus  displayed,  the  great  novelist  is 
using  his  undoubted  privilege  of  showing  the 
large  degree  to  which  human  intercourse  is  car- 
ried on,  not  by  men’s  habits  or  ways  at  their 
commonest,  but  by  the  touching  of  their  ex- 
tremes. A definition  of  Fielding’s  genius  has 
been  made  with  some  accuracy  in  the  saying, 
that  he  shows  common  projrensities  in  connec- 
tion with  the  identical  unvarnished  adjuncts 
which  are  jreculiar  to  the  individual,  nor  could 
a more  exejuisite  felicity  of  handling  than  this 
be  any  man’s  aim  or  desire ; but  it  would  be 
just  as  easy,  by  employment  of  the  critical  rules 
applied  to  Dickens,  to  transform  it  into  matter 
of  censure.  Partridge,  Arlams,  Trullibcr,  Squire 
Western,  and  the  rest,  present  themselves  often 


DICKENS  AS 


enough  umler  the  same  aspects,  and  use  with 
sufticient  uniformity  the  same  catchwords,  to  be 
brought  within  the  charge  of  mannerism  ; and 
though  M.  Taine  cannot  fairly  say  of  Fielding 
as  of  Dickens,  that  he  suffers  from  too  much 
morality,  he  brings  against  him  precisely  the 
charge  so  strongly  put  against  the  later  novelist 
of  “ looking  upon  the  passions  not  as  simple 
forces  but  as  objects  of  approbation  or  blame.” 
We  must  keep  in  mind  all  this  to  understand 
the  worth  of  the  starved  fancy,  that  can  find  in 
such  a delineation  as  that  of  Micawber  only  the 
man  described  by  Mr.  Lewes  as  always  in  the 
same  situation,  moved  with  the  same  springs 
and  uttering  the  same  sounds,  always  confident 
of  something  turning  up,  always  crushed  and 
rebounding,  always  making  punch,  and  his  wife 
always  declaring  she  will  never  part  from  him. 
It  is  not  thus  that  such  creations  are  to  be 
viewed;  but  by  the  light  which  enables  us  to 
see  why  the  country  squires,  village  school- 
masters, and  hedge  parsons  of  Fielding  became 
immortal.  The  later  ones  will  live,  as  the 
earlier  do,  by  the  subtle  quality  of  genius  that 
makes  their  doings  and  sayings  part  of  those 
general  incentives  which  pervade  mankind. 
Who  has  not  had  occasion,  however  priding 
himself  on  his  unlikeness  to  Micawber,  to  think 
of  Micawber  as  he  reviewed  his  own  experi- 
ences ? Who  has  not  himself  waited,  like 
Micawber,  for  something  to  turn  up  ? Who 
has  not  at  times  discovered,  in  one  or  other 
acquaintance  or  friend,  some  one  or  other  of 
that  cluster  of  sagacious  hints  and  fragments  of 
human  life  and  conduct  which  the  kindly  fancy 
of  Dickens  embodied  in  this  delightful  form  ? 
If  the  irrepressible  New  Zealander  ever  comes 
over  to  achieve  his  long  promised  sketch  of  St. 
Paul’s,  who  can  doubt  that  it  will  be  no  other 
than  our  undying  Micawber,  who  had  taken  to 
colonisation  the  last  time  we  saw  him,  and  who 
will  thus  again  have  turned  up  ? There  are  not 
many  conditions  of  life  or  society  to  which  his 
and  his  wife’s  experiences  are  not  applicable  ; 
and  when,  the  year  after  the  immortal  couple 
made  their  first  appearance  on  earth.  Protection 
was  in  one  of  its  then  frequent  difficulties,  de- 
claring it  could  not  live  without  something 
widely  different  from  existing  circumstances 
shortly  turning  up,  and  imploring  its  friends  to 
throw  down  the  gauntlet  and  boldly  challenge 
society  to  turn  up  a majority  and  rescue  it  from 
its  embarrassments,  a distinguished  wit  seized 
upon  the  likeness  to  Micawber,  showed  how 
closely  it  was  borne  out  by  the  jollity  and  gin- 
punch  of  the  banquets  at  which  the  bewailings 
were  heard,  and  asked  whether  Dickens  had 


A NO  VELIST.  365 


stolen  from  the  farmer’s  friends  or  the  farmer’s 
friends  had  stolen  from  Dickens.  “Corn,”  said 
Mr.  Micawber,  “may  be  gentlemanly,  but  it  is 
not  remunerative I ask  myself  this  ques- 

tion : if  corn  is  not  to  be  relied  on,  what  is  ? 

We  must  live ” Loud  as  the  general 

laughter  was,  I think  the  laughter  of  Dickens 
himself  was  loudest,  at  this  discovery  of  so  exact 
and  unexpected  a likeness. 

A readiness  in  all  forms  thus  to  enjoy  his  own 
pleasantry  was  indeed  always  observable  (it  is 
common  to  great  humourists,  nor  would  it  be 
easier  to  carry  it  farther  than  Sterne  did),  and 
his  own  confession  on  the  point  may  receive 
additional  illustration  before  proceeding  to  the 
later  books.  He  accounted  by  it,  as  we  have 
seen,  for  occasional  even  grotesque  extrava- 
gances. In  another  of  his  letters  there  is  this 
passage  : “ I can  report  that  I have  finished  the 
job  I set  myself,  and  that  it  has  in  it  something 
— to  me  at  all  events — so  extraordinarily  droll, 
that  though  I have  been  reading  it  some  hun- 
dred times  in  the  course  of  the  working,  I have 
never  been  able  to  look  at  it  with  the  least  com- 
posure, but  have  always  roared  in  the  most  un- 
blushing manner.  I leave  you  to  find  out  what 
it  was.”  It  was  the  encounter  of  the  major  and 
the  tax-collector  in  the  second  Mrs.  Lirriper. 
Writing  previously  of  the  papers  in  Household 
Words  called  The  Lazy  Tour  of  Two  Idle 
Apprentices,  after  saying  that  he  and  Mr. 
Wilkie  Collins  had  written  together  a story  in 
the  second  part,  “ in  which  I think  you  would 
find  it  very  difficult  to  say  where  I leave  off  and 
he  comes  in,”  he  had  said  of  the  preceding  de- 
scriptions : “ Some  of  my  own  tickle  me  very 
much  ; but  that  may  be  in  great  part  because  I 
know  the  originals,  and  delight  in  their  fantastic 
fidelity.”  “ I have  been  at  work  with  such  a 
will,”  he  writes  later  of  a piece  of  humour  for 
the  holidays,  “ that  I have  done  the  opening 
and  conclusion  of  the  Christmas  number.  They 
are  done  in  the  character  of  a waiter,  and  I 
think  are  exceedingly  droll.  The  thread  on 
which  the  stories  are  to  hang,  is  spun  by  this  i 
waiter,  and  is,  purposely,  very  slight ; but  has,  I 
fancy,  a ridiculously  comical  and  unexpected  1 
end.  The  waiter’s  account  of  himself  includes  [ 
(I  hope)  everything  you  know  about  waiters,  I 
presented  humorously.”  In  this  last  we  have 
a hint  of  the  “fantastic  fidelity”  with  which, 
when  a fancy  “ tickled  ” him,  he  would  bring 
out  what  Corporal  Nym  calls  the  humour  of  it 
under  so  astonishing  a variety  of  conceivable 
and  inconceivable  aspects  of  subtle  exaggera- 
tion, that  nothing  was  left  to  the  subject  but 
that  special  individual  illustration  of  it.  In  this, 


366 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICICENS. 


however,  humour  was  not  his  servant  but  Ins 
master  : because  it  reproduced  too  readily,  and 
carried  too  far,  the  grotesque  imaginings  to 
which  great  humourists  are  prone ; which  lie 
indeed  deep  in  their  nature;  and  from  which 
they  derive  their  genial  sympathy  with  eccentric 
characters  that  enables  them  to  find  motives  for 
what  to  other  men  is  hopelessly  obscure,  to 
exalt  into  types  of  humanity  what  the  world 
turns  impatiently  aside  at,  and  to  enshrine  in  a 
form  for  eternal  homage  and  love  such  whim- 
sical absurdity  as  Captain  Toby  Shandy’s.  But 
Dickens  was  too  conscious  of  these  excesses 
from  time  to  time,  not  zealously  to  endeavour 
to  keep  the  leading  characters  in  his  more  im- 
portant stories  under  some  strictness  of  disci- 
pline. To  confine  exaggeration  within  legiti- 
mate limits  was  an  art  he  laboriously  studied ; 
and,  in  whatever  proportions  of  failure  or  suc- 
cess, during  the  vicissitudes  of  both  that  attended 
his  later  years,  he  continued  to  endeavour  to 
practise  it.  In  regard  to  mere  description,  it  is 
true,  he  let  himself  loose  more  frequently,  and 
would  sometimes  defend  it  even  on  the  ground 
of  art ; nor  would  it  be  fair  to  omit  his  reply,  on 
one  occasion,  to  some  such  remonstrance  as  M. 
Taine  has  embodied  in  his  adverse  criticism, 
against  the  too  great  imaginative  wealth  thrown 
by  him  into  mere  narrative.  “ It  does  not  seem 
to  me  to  be  enough  to  say  of  any  description 
that  it  is  the  exact  truth.  The  exact  truth  must 
be  there ; but  the  merit  or  art  in  the  narrator,  is 
the  manner  of  stating  the  truth.  As  to  which 
thing  in  literature,  it  always  seems  to  me  that 
there  is  a world  to  be  done.  And  in  these 
times,  when  the  tendency  is  to  be  frightfully 
literal  and  catalogue-like — to  make  the  thing,  in 
short,  a sort  of  sum  in  reduction  that  any  mise- 
rable creature  can  do  in  that  way — I have  an 
idea  (really  founded  on  the  love  of  what  I pro- 
fess), that  the  very  holding  of  popular  literature 
through  a kind  of  popular  dark  age,  may  depend 
on  such  fanciful  treatment.” 


II. 

THE  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 

DICKENS’S  next  story  to  Liitle  Dorrit  was 
The  Talc  of  Two  Cities,  of  which  the 
first  notion  occurred  to  him  while  acting  with 
his  friends  and  his  children  in  the  summer 
of  1857  in  Mr.  Wilkie  Collins’s  drama  of 
The  I'rozen  Deep,  But  it  was  only  a vague 
fancy,  and  the  sadness  and  trouble  of  the 


winter  of  that  year  were  not  favourable  to 
it.  Towards  the  close  (27th)  of  January  1858, 
talking  of  improvements  at  Gadshill  in  which  he 
took  little  interest,  it  was  again  in  his  thoughts. 
“ Growing  inclinations  of  a fitful  and  undefined 
sort  are  upon  me  sometimes  to  fall  to  work  on 
a new  book.  Then  I think  I had  better  not 
worry  my  worried  mind  yet  awhile.  Then  I 
think  it  would  be  of  no  use  if  I did,  for  I 
couldn’t  settle  to  one  occupation. — And  that’s 
all!”  “If  I can  discipline  my  thoughts,”  he 
wrote  three  days  later,  “ into  the  channel  of  a 
story,  I have  made  up  my  mind  to  get  to  work 
on  one ; always  supposing  that  I find  myself,  on 
the  trial,  able  to  do  well.  Nothing  whatever 
will  do  me  the  least  ‘ good’  in  the  way  of  shaking 
the  one  strong  possession  of  change  impending 
over  us  that  every  day  makes  stronger ; but  if  I 
could  work  on  with  some  approach  to  steadi- 
ness, through  the  summer,  the  anxious  toil  of  a 
new  book  would  have  its  neck  well  broken  before 
beginning  to  publish,  next  October  or  November. 
Sometimes,  I think  I may  continue  to  work ; 
sometimes,  I tliink  not.  What  do  you  say  to 
the  title.  One  of  these  Days?”  That  title 
held  its  ground  very  briefly.  “ What  do  you 
think,”  he  wrote  after  six  weeks,  “ of  this  name 
for  my  story — Buried  Alive?  Does  it  seem 
too  grim  ? Or,  The  Thread  of  Gold?  Or, 
The  Doctor  of  Beauvais?”  But  not  until 
twelve  months  later  did  he  fairly  buckle  himself 
to  the  task  he  had  contemplated  so  long.  All 
the  Year  Round  had  taken  the  place  of  House- 
hold Words  in  the  interval ; and  the  tale  was 
then  started  to  give  strength  to  the  new  weekly 
periodical,  in  which  it  was  resolved  to  publish  it. 

“ This  is  merely  to  certify,”  he  wrote  on  the 
nth  of  March  1859,  “that  I have  got  e.xactly 
the  name  for  the  story  that  is  wanted ; exactly 
what  will  fit  the  opening  to  a T.  A Tale  of 
Two  Cities.  Also,  that  I have  struck  out  a 
rather  original  and  bold  idea,  That  is,  at  the 
end  of  each  month  to  publish  the  monthly  part 
in  the  green  cover,  with  the  two  illustrations,  at 
the  old  shilling.  This  will  give  All  the  Year 
Round  always  the  interest  and  precedence  of  a 
fresh  weekly  portion  during  the  month  ; and  will 
give  me  my  old  standing  with  ray  old  public, 
and  the  advantage  (very  necessary  in  this  story) 
of  having  numbers  of  people  who  read  it  in  no 

portions  smaller  than  a monthly  part 

My  American  ambassador  pays  a thousand 
pounds  for  the  first  year,  for  the  privilege  of  re- 
publishing in  America  one  day  after  we  publish 
here.  Not  bad?”  ....  He  had  to  struggle  at 
the  opening  through  a sharp  attack  of  illness, 
and  on  the  9th  of  July  progress  was  thus  re- 


THE  TALE  OF  TWO  CITIES. 


367 


ported.  “ I have  been  getting  on  in  Ircalth  very 
.slowly  and  through  irksome  botheration  enough. 
J)Ut  I think  I am  rouml  the  corner.  This  cause 
— and  the  heat — has  tended  to  my  doing  no 
more  than  hold  my  ground,  my  old  month’s 
advance,  with  the  Tale  of  Two  Cities.  I’he 
small  portions  thereof,  drive  me  frantic ; but  I 
think  the  tale  must  have  taken  a strong  hold. 
Tire  run  upon  our  monthly  parts  is  surprising, 
and  last  month  we  sold  35,000  back  numbers. 
A note  I have  had  from  Carlyle  about  it  has 
given  me  especial  pleasure.”  A letter  of  the 
following  month  expresses  the  intention  he  had 
when  he  began  the  story,  and  in  what  respect  it 
differs  as  to  method  from  all  his  other  books. 
Sending  in  proof  four  numbers  ahead  of  the 
current  publication,  he  adds  : “ I hope  you  will 
like  them.  Nothing  but  the  interest  of  the  sub- 
ject, and  the  pleasure  of  striving  with  the  diffi- 
CLilty  of  the  form  of  treatment, — nothing  in  the 
way  of  mere  money,  I mean, — could  else  repay 
the  time  and  trouble  of  the  incessant  condensa- 
tion. But  I set  myself  the  little  task  of  making  a 
picturesque  story,  rising  in  every  chapter,  with  cha- 
racters true  to  nature,  but  whom  the  story  should 
express  more  than  they  should  express  them- 
selves by  dialogue.  I mean  in  other  words,  that 
I fancied  a story  of  incident  might  be  written  (in 
place  of  the  odious  stuff  that  is  written  under 
that  pretence),  pounding  the  characters  in  its 
own  mortar,  and  beating  their  interest  out  of 
them.  If  you  could  have  read  the  story  all  at 
once,  I hope  you  wouldn’t  have  stopped  halfway.” 
Another  of  his  letters  supplies  the  last  illustra- 
tion I need  to  give  of  the  design  and  meanings 
in  regard  to  this  tale  expressed  by  himself.  It 
was  a reply  to  some  objections  of  w'hich  the 
principal  were,  a doubt  if  the  feudal  cruelties 
came  sufficiently  within  the  date  of  the  action  to 
justify  his  use  of  them,  and  some  question  as  to 
the  manner  of  disposing  of  the  chief  revolu- 
tionary agent  in  the  plot.  “ I had  of  course  full 
knowledge  of  the  formal  surrender  of  the  feudal 
privileges,  but  these  had  been  bitterly  felt  quite 
as  near  to  the  time  of  the  Revolution  as  the 
Doctor’s  narrative,  which  you  will  remember 
dates  long  before  the  Terror.  With  the  slang 
of  the  new  philosophy  on  the  one  side,  it  was 
surely  not  unreasonable  or  unallowable,  on  the 
other,  to  suppose  a nobleman  wedded  to  the  old 
cruel  ideas,  and  representing  the  time  going  out 
as  his  nephew  represents  the  time  coming  in.  If 
there  be  anything  certain  on  earth,  I take  it  that 
the  condition  of  the  French  peasant  generally  at 
that  day  was  intolerable.  No  later  inquiries  or 
provings  by  figures  will  hold  water  against  the 
tremendous  testimony  of  men  living  at  the  time. 


'I'here  is  a curious  book  printed  at  Amsterdam, 
written  to  make  out  no  case  whatever,  and  tire- 
some enougli  in  its  literal  dictionary-like  minute- 
ness ; scattered  up  and  down  the  pages  of  which 
is  full  authority  for  my  marquis.  This  is  Mcr- 
cier’s  Tableau  de  Paris.  Rousseau  is  the  autho- 
rity for  the  peasant’s  shutting  up  his  house  when 
he  had  a bit  of  meat.  The  tax-tables  are  the 
authority  for  the  wretched  creature’s  impoverish- 
ment  I am  not  clear,  and  I never  have 

been  clear,  respecting  the  canon  of  fiction  which 
forbids  the  interposition  of  accident  insuc’n  a case 
as  Madame  Defarge’s  death.  AVhere  the  accident 
is  inseparable  from  the  passion  and  action  of  the 
character;  where  it  is  strictly  consistent  with  the 
entire  design,  and  arises  out  of  some  culminating 
proceeding  on  the  part  of  the  individual  which 
the  whole  story  has  led  up  to ; it  seems  to  me 
to  become,  as  it  were,  an  act  of  divine  justice. 
And  when  I use  Miss  Pross  (though  this  is  quite 
another  question)  to  bring  about  such  a cata- 
strophe, I have  the  positive  intention  of  making 
that  half-comic  intervention  a part  of  the  des- 
perate woman’s  failure ; and  of  opposing  that 
mean  death,  instead  of  a desperate  one  in  the 
streets  which  she  wouldn’t  have  minded,  to  the 
dignity  of  Carton’s.  Wrong  or  right,  this  was  all  ' 
design,  and  seemed  to  me  to  be  in  the  fitness  of 
things.” 

These  are  interesting  intimations  of  the  care 
with  which  Dickens  worked ; and  there  is  no 
instance  in  his  novels,  excepting  this,  of  a de- 
liberate and  planned  departure  from  the  method 
of  treatment  which  had  been  pre-eminently  the 
source  of  his  popularity  as  a novelist.  To  rely 
less  upon  character  than  upon  incident,  and  to 
resolve  that  his  actors  should  be  expressed  by 
the  story  more  than  they  should  express  them- 
selves by  dialogue,  was  for  him  a hazardous,  and 
can  hardly  be  called  an  entirely  successful,  ex- 
periment. With  singular  dramatic  vivacity,  much 
constructive  art,  and  with  descriptive  passages  of 
a high  order  everywhere  (the  dawn  of  the  terrible 
outbreak  in  the  journey  of  the  marquis  from 
Paris  to  his  country  seat,  and  the  London  crowd 
at  the  funeral  of  the  spy,  may  be  instanced  for 
their  power),  there  was  probably  never  a book 
by  a great  humourist,  and  an  artist  so  prolific  in 
the  conception  of  character,  with  so  little  humour 
and  so  few  rememberable  figures.  Its  merits  lie  ! 
elsewhere.  Though  there  are  excellent  traits  | 
and  touches  all  through  the  revolutionary  scenes, 
the  only  full-length  that  stands  out  prominently 
is  the  picture  of  the  wasted  life  saved  at  last  by 
heroic  sacrifice.  Dickens  speaks  of  his  design 
to  make  impressive  the  dignity  of  Carton’s  death, 
and  in  this  he  succeeded  perhaps  even  beyond 


368 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


his  expectation.  Carton  suffers  himself  to  be 
mistaken  for  another,  and  gives  his  life  that  the 
girl  he  loves  may  be  happy  with  that  other  ; the 
secret  being  known  only  to  a poor  little  girl  in 
the  tumbril  that  takes  them  to  the  scaffold,  who 
at  the  moment  has  discovered  it,  and  whom  it 
strengthens  also  to  die.  The  incident  is  beauti- 
fully told ; and  it  is  at  least  only  fair  to  set 
against  verdicts  not  very  favourable  as  to  this 
effort  of  his  invention,  what  was  said  of  the  par- 
ticular character  and  scene,  and  of  the  book 
generally,  by  an  American  critic  whose  literary- 
studies  had  most  familiarized  him  with  the  rarest 
forms  of  imaginative  writing.  “ Its  pourtrayal  of 
the  noble-natured  castaway  makes  it  almost  a 
peerless  book  in  modern  literature,  and  gives  it 
a place  among  the  highest  examples  of  literary 

art The  conception  of  this  character 

shows  in  its  author  an  ideal  of  magnanimity  and 
of  charity  unsurpassed.  There  is  not  a grander, 
lovelier  figure  than  the  self  wrecked,  self-devoted 
Sydney  Carton,  in  literature  or  history ; and  the 
story  itself  is  so  noble  in  its  spirit,  so  grand  and 
graphic  in  its  style,  and  filled  with  a pathos  so 
profound  and  simple,  that  it  deserves  and  will 
surely  take  a place  among  the  great  serious 
works  of  imagination.”  I should  myself  prefer 
to  say  that  its  distinctive  merit  is  less  in  any  of 
its  conceptions  of  character,  even  Carton’s,  than 
as  a specimen  of  Dickens's  power  in  imaginative 
story-telling.  There  is  no  piece  of  fiction  known 
to  me,  in  which  the  domestic  life  of  a few  simple 
private  people  is  in  such  a manner  knitted  and 
interwoven  with  the  outbreak  of  a terrible  public 
event,  that  the  one  seems  but  part  of  the  other. 
^Vhen  made  conscious  of  the  first  sultry  drops  of 
a thunderstorm  that  fall  upon  a little  group 
sitting  in  an  obscure  English  lodging,  we  are 
witness  to  the  actual  beginning  of  a tempest 
which  is  preparing  to  sweep  away  everything  in 
France.  And,  to  the  end,  the  book  in  this 
respect  is  really  remarkable. 


III. 


GREAT  EXPECTATIONS. 

HE  Talc  of  Two  Cities  was  published 
in  1859  ; the  series  of  papers  collected 
as  the  Uncommercial  Traveller  were 
occupying  Dickens  in  i860;  and  it 
was  while  engaged  in  these,  and 
throwing  off  in  the  course  of  them 
capital  “samples”  of  fun  and  enjoyment, 
he  thus  replied  to  a suggestion  that  he 
should  let  himself  loose  upon  some  single 


humorous  conception,  in  the  vein  of  his  youth- 
ful achievements  in  that  way.  “ For  a little 
piece  I have  been  writing — or  am  writing ; for  I 
hope  to  finish  it  to-day — such  a very  fine,  new, 
and  grotesque  idea  has  opened  upon  me,  that  I 
begin  to  doubt  whether  I had  not  better  cancel 
the  little  p'aper,  and  reserve  the  notion  for  a new 
book.  You  shall  judge  as  soon  as  I get  it 
printed.  But  it  so  opens  out  before  me  that  I 
can  see  the  whole  of  a serial  revolving  on  it,  in 
a most  singular  and  comic  manner.”  This  was 
the  germ  of  Pip  and  Magwitch,  which  at  first  he 
intended  to  make  the  groundwork  of  a tale  in 
the  old  twenty-number  form,  but  for  reasons 
perhaps  fortunate  brought  afterwards  within  the 
limits  of  a less  elaborate  novel.  “ Last  week,” 
he  wrote  on  the  4th  of  October  i860,  “ I got 
to  work  on  the  new  story.  I had  previously 
very  carefully  considered  the  state  and  prospects 
of  Air  the  Year  Round,  and,  the  more  I con- 
sidered them,  the  less  hope  I saw  of  being  able 
to  get  back,  nozv,  to  the  profit  of  a separate  pub- 
lication in  the  old  20  numbers.”  (A  tale,  which 
at  the  time  was  appearing  in  his  serial,  had  dis- 
appointed expectation.)  “ However,  I worked 
on,  knowing  that  what  I was  doing  would  run 
into  another  groove  ; and  I called  a council  of 
war  at  the  office  on  Tuesday.  It  was  perfectly 
clear  that  the  one  thing  to  be  done  was,  for  me 
to  strike  in.  I have  therefore  decided  to  begin 
the  story  as  of  the  length  of  the  Tale  of  Two 
Cities  on  the  first  of  December — begin  publish- 
ing, that  is.  I must  make  the  most  1 can  out  of 
the  book.  You  shall  have  the  first  two  or  three 
weekly  parts  to-morrow.  The  name  is  Great 
Expectations.  I think  a good  name?”  Two 
days  later  he  wrote : “ The  sacrifice  of  Great 
Expectations  is  really  and  truly  made  for  myselff 
The  property  of  All  the  Year  Round  is  far  too 
valuable,  in  every  way,  to  be  much  endangered. 
Our  fall  is  not  large,  but  we  have  a considerable 
advance  in  hand  of  the  story  we  are  now  pub- 
lishing, and  there  is  no  vitality  in  it,  and  no 
chance  whatever  of  stopping  the  fall ; which  on 
the  contrary  would  be  certain  to  increase.  Now, 
if  I went  into  a twenty-number  serial,  1 should 
cut  off  my  power  of  doing  anything  serial  here 
for  two  good  years — and  that  would  be  a most 
perilous  thing.  On  the  other  hand,  by  dashing 
in  now,  1 come  in  when  most  wanted ; and  if 
Keade  and  Wilkie  follow  me,  our  course  will  be 
shaped  out  handsomely  and  hopefully  for  be- 
tween two  and  three  years.  A ihousaiul  iiounds 
are  to  be  paid  for  early  p;-oofs  of  the  story  to 
.\merica.”  A few  more  days  brought  the  Ijrsl 
instalment  of  the,  tale,  and  cx|)lanatory  mention 
of  it.  “ The  book  will  be  written  in  the  first 


GREA  T EXFE CTA  7 JONS.  36 9 


person  throughout,  and  during  these  first  three 
weekly  numbers  you  will  find  the  hero  to  be  a 
boy-child,  like  David.  Then  he  will  be  an 
apprentice.  You  will  not  have  to  complain  of 
the  want  of  humour  as  in  the  7'ale  of  Two  Cities. 
1 have  matle  the  opening,  1 hope,  in  its  general 
effect  e.xceedingly  droll.  I have  put  a child  and 
a good-natured  foolish  man,  in  relations  that 
seem  to  me  very  funny.  Of  course  I have  got 
in  the  pivot  on  which  the  story  will  turn  too — 
and  which,  indeed,  as  you  remember,  was  the 
grotesque  tragi-comic  conception  that  first  en- 
couraged me.  To  be  quite  sure  I had  fallen 
into  no  unconscious  repetitions,  I read  David 
Copperfield  again  the  other  day,  and  was  affected 
by  it  to  a degree  you  would  hardly  believe.” 

It  may  be  doubted  if  Dickens  could  better 
Slave  established  his  right  to  the  front  rank 
among  novelists  claimed  for  him,  than  by  the 
ease  and  mastery  with  which,  in  these  two  books 
of  Copperfield  and  Great  Expectations,  he  kept 
perfectly  distinct  the  two  stories  of  a boy’s  child- 
hood, both  told  in  the  form  of  autobiography. 
A subtle  penetration  into  character  marks  the 
unlikeness  in  the  likeness ; there  is  enough  at 
once  of  resemblance  and  of  difference  in  the 
position  and  surroundings  of  each  to  account 
for  the  divergences  of  character  that  arise  ; both 
children  are  good-hearted,  and  both  have  the 
advantage  of  association  with  models  of  tender 
simplicity  and  oddity,  perfect  in  their  truth  and 
quite  distinct  from  each  other;  but  a sudden 
tumble  into  distress  steadies  Peggotty’s  little 
friend,  and  as  unexpected  a stroke  of  good  for- 
tune turns  the  head  of  the  small  protege  of  Joe 
Gargery.  Y’hat  a deal  of  spoiling  nevertheless, 
a nature  that  is  really  good  at  the  bottom  of  it 
will  stand  without  permanent  damage,  is  nicely 
shown  in  Pip  ; and  the  way  he  reconciles  his 
determination  to  act  very  shabbily  to  his  early 
friends,  with  a conceited  notion  that  he  is  setting 
them  a moral  example,  is  part  of  the  shading  of 
a character  drawn  with  extraordinary  skill.  His 
greatest  trial  comes  out  of  his  good  luck ; and 
the  foundations  of  both  are  laid  at  the  opening 
of  the  tale,  in  a churchyard  down  by  the  Thames, 
as  it  winds  past  desolate  marshes  twenty  miles 
to  the  sea,  of  which  a masterly  picture  in  half  a 
dozen  lines  will  give  only  average  example  of 
the  descriptive  writing  that  is  everywhere  one  of 
the  charms  of  the  book.  It  is  strange,  as  I 
transcribe  the  words,  with  what  wonderful  vivid- 
ness they  bring  back  the  very  spot  on  which  we 
stood  when  he  said  he  meant  to  make  it  the 
scene  of  the  opening  of  his  story — Cooling 
Castle  ruins  and  the  desolate  Church,  lying  out 
among  the  marshes  seven  miles  from  Gadshill  ! 


“ My  first  most  vivid  and  broad  impression  . . . . 
on  a memorable  raw  afternoon  towards  evening 
....  was  ....  that  this  bleak  place,  over- 
grown with  nettles,  was  the  churchyard,  and 
that  the  dark  flat  wilderness  beyond  the  church- 
yard, intersected  with  dykes  and  mounds  and 
gates,  with  scattered  cattle  feeding  on  it,  was 
the  marshes ; and  that  the  low  leaden  line  be- 
yond, was  the  river;  and  that  the  distant  savage 
lair  from  which  the  wind  was  rushing,  was  the 
sea  ....  On  the  edge  of  the  river  ....  only 
two  black  things  in  all  the  prospect  seemed  to 
be  standing  upright  ....  one,  the  beacon  by 
which  the  sailors  steered,  like  an  unhooped  cask 
upon  a pole,  an  ugly  thing  when  you  were  near 
I it ; the  other,  a gibbet  with  some  chains  hanging 
I to  it  which  had  once  held  a pirate.”  Here  Mag- 
i witch,  an  escaped  convict  from  Chatham,  terrifies 
I the  child  Pip  into  stealing  for  him  food  and  a 
file  : and  though  recaptured  and  transported,  he 
carries  with  him  to  Australia  such  a grateful 
heart  for  the  small  creature’s  service,  that  on 
making  a fortune  there  he  resolves  to  make  his 
little  friend  a gentleman.  This  requires  circum- 
spection ; and  is  so  done,  through  the  Old-Bailey 
attorney  who  has  defended  Magwitch  at  his  trial 
(a  character  of  surprising  novelty  and  truth),  that 
Pip  imagines  his  present  gifts  and  “ great  expec- 
tations ” to  have  come  from  the  supposed  rich 
lady  of  the  story  (whose  eccentricities  are  the 
unattractive  part  of  it,  and  have  yet  a weird 
character  that  somehow  fits  in  with  the  kind  of 
wrong  she  has  suffered).  When  therefore  the 
closing  scenes  bring  back  Magwitch  himself, 
who  risks  his  life  to  gratify  his  longing  to  see 
the  gentleman  he  has  made,  it  is  an  unspeakable 
horror  to  the  youth  to  discover  his  benefactor  in 
the  convicted  felon.  If  any  one  doubts  Dickens’s 
power  of  so  drawing  a character  as  to  get  to  the 
heart  of  it,  seeing  beyond  surface  peculiarities 
into  the  moving  springs  of  the  human  being 
himself,  let  him  narrowly  examine  those  scenes. 
There  is  not  a grain  of  substitution  of  mere  sen- 
timent, or  circumstance,  for  the  inner  and  abso- 
lute reality  of  the  position  in  which  these  two 
creatures  find  themselves.  Pip’s  loathing  of  what 
had  built  up  his  fortune,  and  his  horror  of  the 
uncouth  architect,  are  apparent  in  even  his  most 
generous  efforts  to  protect  him  from  exposure  and 
sentence.  Magwitch’s  convict  habits  strangely 
blend  themselves  with  his  wild  pride  in,  and 
love  for,  the  youth  whom  his  money  has  turned 
into  a gentleman.  He  has  a craving  for  his 
good  opinion ; dreads  to  offend  him  by  his 
“ heavy  grubbing,”  or  by  the  oaths  he  lets  fall 
now  and  then;  and  pathetically  hopes  his  Pip, 

1 his  dear  bo}q  won’t  think  him  “ low” : but,  upon  a 


37° 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


chum  of  Pip’s  appearing  unexpectedly  while  they 
are  together,  he  pulls  out  a jack-knife  by  way  of 
hint  he  can  defend  himself,  and  produces  after- 
wards a greasy  little  clasped  black  Testament 
on  ^vhich  the  startled  new-comer,  being  found 
to  have  no  hostile  intention,  is  sworn  to  secrecy. 
At  the  opening  of  the  story  there  had  been  an 
exciting  scene  of  the  wretched  man’s  chase  and 
recapture  among  the  marshes,  and  this  has  its 
parallel  at  the  close  in  his  chase  and  recapture 
on  the  river  while  poor  Pip  is  helping  to  get  him 
off.  To  make  himself  sure  of  the  actual  course 
of  a boat  in  such  circunrstances,  and  what  pos- 
sible incidents  the  adventure  might  have,  Dickens 
hired  a steamer  for  the  day  from  Blackwall  to 
Southend.  Eight  or  nine  friends  and  three  or 
four  members  of  his  family  were  on  board,  and 
he  seemed  to  have  no  care,  the  whole  of  that 
summer  day  (22  nd  of  May  1861),  except  to 
enjoy  their  enjoyment  and  entertain  them  with 
his  own  in  shape  of  a thousand  whims  and 
fancies ; but  his  sleepless  observation  was  at 
work  all  the  time,  and  nothing  had  escaped  his 
keen  vision  on  either  side  of  the  river.  The 
fifteenth  chapter  of  the  third  volume  is  a master- 
piece. 

The  characters  generally  afford  the  same  evi- 
dence as  those  two  that  Dickens’s  humour,  not 
less  than  his  creative  power,  was  at  its  best  in 
this  book.  The  Old-Bailey  attorney  Jaggers, 
and  his  clerk  Wemmick  (both  excellent,  and  the 
last  one  of  the  oddities  that  live  in  everybody’s 
liking;  for  the  goodheartedness  of  its  comic 
surprises),  are  as  good  as  his  earliest  efforts  in 
that  line ; the  Pumblechooks  and  Wopsles  are 
1 as  perfect  as  bits  of  Nicklcby  fresh  from  the  mint ; 
and  the  scene  in  which  Pip,  and  Pip’s  chum, 
Plerbert,  make  up  their  accounts  and  schedule 
their  debts  and  obligations,  is  original  and  de- 
lightful as  Micawber  himself.  It  is  the  art  of 
living  upon  nothing  and  making  the  best  of  it, 
in  its  most  pleasing  form.  Herbert’s  intentions 
to  trade  east  and  west,  and  get  himself  into 
business  transactions  of  a magnificent  extent  and 
variety,  are  as  perfectly  warranted  to  us,  in  his 
way  of  putting  them,  by  merely  “being  in  a 
counting-house  and  looking  about  you,”  as  Pip’s 
means  of  paying  his  debts  are  lightened  and 
made  easy  by  his  method  of  simply  adding  them 
up  with  a margin.  “ The  time  comes,”  says 
Herbert,  “ when  you  see  your  opening.  And 
you  go  in,  and  you  swoop  upon  it,  and  you 
make  your  capital,  and  then  there  you  arc  ! 
When  you  have  once  made  your  capital  you 
have  nothing  to  do  hut  employ  it.”  In  like 
manner  Pip  tells  us,  “ Suppose  your  debts  to  be 
one  hundred  and  sixty-four  pounds  four  and 


twopence,  I would  say,  leave  a margin  and  put 
them  down  at  two  hundred  • or  suppose  them 
to  be  four  times  as  much,  leave  a margin  and 
put  them  down  at  seven  hundred.”  He  is  suffi- 
ciently candid  to  add,  that,  while  he  has  the 
highest  opinion  of  the  wisdom  and  prudence  of 
the  margin,  its  dangers  are  that  in  the  sense  of 
freedom  and  solvency  it  imparts  there  is  a tend- 
ency to  run  into  new  debt.  But  the  satire 
that  thus  enforces  the  old  warning  against  living 
upon  vague  hopes,  and  paying  ancient  debts  by 
contracting  new  ones,  never  presented  itself  in 
more  amusing  or  kindly  shape.  A word  should 
be  added  of  the  father  of  the  girl  that  Herbert 
marries,  Bill  Barley,  ex-ship’s  purser,  a gouty, 
bed-ridden,  drunken  old  rascal,  who  lies  on  his 
back  in  an  upper  floor  on  Mill  Pond  Bank,  by 
Chinks’s  Basin,  where  he  keeps,  weighs,  and 
serves  out  the  family  stores  or  provisions,  ac- 
cording to  old  professional  practice,  with  one 
eye  at  a telescope  which  is  fitted  on  his  bed  for 
the  convenience  of  sweeping  the  river.  This  is 
one  of  those  sketches,  slight  in  itself  but  made 
rich  with  a wealth  of  comic  observation,  in  which 
Dickens’s  humour  took  especial  delight ; and  to 
all  this  part  of  the  story  there  is  a quaint  river- 
side flavour  that  gives  it  amusing  reality  and 
relish. 

Sending  the  chapters  that  contain  it,  which 
open  the  third  division  of  the  tale,  he  wrote 
thus  : “ It  is  a pity  that  the  third  portion  cannot 
be  read  all  at  once,  because  its  purpose  would 
be  much  more  apparent ; and  the  pity  is  the 
greater,  because  the  general  turn  and  tone  of 
the  working  out  and  winding  up,  will  be  away 
from  all  such  things  as  they  conventionally  go. 
But  what  must  be,  must  be.  As  to  the  planning 
out  from  week  to  week,  nobody  can  imagine 
what  the  difficulty  is,  without  trying.  But,  as  in 
all  such  cases,  when  it  is  overcome  the  pleasure 
is  proportionate.  Two  months  more  will  see 
me  through  it,  I trust.  All  the  iron  is  in  the 
fire,  and  I have  ‘only’  to  beat  it  out.”  One 
other  letter  throws  light  upon  an  objection  taken 
not  unfairly  to  the  too  great  speed  with  which 
the  heroine,  after  being  married,  reclaimed,  and 
widowed,  is  in  a ]iage  or  two  again  made  love 
to,  and  remarried  by  the  hero.  This  summary 
proceeding  was  not  originally  intended.  But, 
over  and  above  its  popular  acceptance,  the  book 
had  interested  some  whose  opinions  Dickens 
specially  valued  (Carlyle  among  them,  I remem- 
ber) ; and  uj)on  Bulwer  Lylton  objecting  to  a 
close  that  should  leave  Tip  a solitary  man, 
Dickens  substituted  what  now  stands.  “ You 
will  be  surprised,”  he  wrote,  “ to  hear  that  I 
have  changed  the  end  of  Expectations 


OUR  MUTUAL  FRIEND. 


371 


from  and  after  rij)’s  return  to  Joe’s,  and  finding 
his  little  likeness  there.  Uulwer,  who  has  been, 
as  I think  you  know,  extraordinarily  taken  by 
the  book,  so  strongly  urged  it  upon  me,  after 
reading  the  proofs,  and  supported  his  view  with 
such  good  reasons,  that  I resolved  to  make  the 
change.  You  shall  have  it  when  you  come  back 
to  town.  I have  put  in  as  pretty  a little  piece 
of  writing  as  I could,  and  I have  no  doubt 
the  story  will  be  more  acceptable  through  the 
alteration.”  This  turned  out  to  be  the  case  • 
but  the  first  ending  nevertheless  seems  to  be 
more  consistent  with  the  drift,  as  well  as  natural 
working  out,  of  the  tale. 


IV. 


j CHRISTMAS  SKETCHES. 

ETWEEN  that  fine  novel,  which  was 
issued  in  three  volumes  in  the  au- 
tumn of  186 r,  and  the  completion  of 
his  next  serial  story,  were  interposed 
three  sketches  in  his  happiest  vein 
which  everyone  laughed  and  cried 
the  Christmas  times  of  1862,  ’3,  • 
and  ’4.  Of  the  waiter  in  So7nebody's 
Luggage  Dickens  has  himself  spoken  ; and  if  any 
theme  is  well  treated,  when,  from  the  point  of 
view  taken,  nothing  more  is  left  to  say  about  it, 
that  bit  of  fun  is  perfect.  Call  it  exaggeration, 
grotesqueness,  or  by  what  hard  name  you  will, 
laughter  will  always  intercept  any  graver  criti- 
cism. Writing  from  Paris  of  what  he  was  him- 
self responsible  for  in  the  articles  left  by  Some- 
body with  his  wonderful  Waiter,  he  said  that  in 
one  of  them  he  had  made  the  story  a camera 
obscura  of  certain  French  places  and  styles  of 
people  ; having  founded  it  on  something  he  had 
noticed  in  a French  soldier.  This  was  the  tale 
of  Little  Bebelle,  which  had  a small  French  cor- 
poral for  its  hero,  and  became  highly  popular. 
But  the  triumph  of  the  Christmas  achievements 
in  these  days  was  Mrs.  Lirriper.  She  took  her 
place  at  once  among  people  known  to  every- 
body; and  all  the  world  talked  of  Major  Jemmy 
Jackman,  and  his  friend  the  poor  elderly  lodging- 
house  keeper  of  the  Strand,  v/ith  her  miserable 
cares  and  rivalries  and  worries,  as  if  they  had  both 
been  as  long  in  London  and  as  well  known  as 
Norfolk-street  itself.  A dozen  volumes  could 
not  have  told  more  than  those  dozen  pages  did. 
The  Legacy  followed  the  Lodgings  in  1864,  and 
there  was  no  falling  off  in  the  fun  and  laughter. 


V. 

OUR  MUTUAL  FRIEND. 

FIE  publication  of  Our  Mutual  Friend, 
in  the  form  of  the  earliest  stories, 
extended  from  May  1864  to  No- 
vember 1865.  Four  years  earlier  lie 
had  chosen  this  title  as  a good  one, 
and  he  held  to  it  through  much  objection. 
Between  that  time  and  his  actual  com- 
mencement there  is  mention,  in  his  letters, 
of  the  three  leading  notions  on  which  he  founded 
the  story.  In  his  waterside  wanderings  during 
his  last  book,  the  many  handbills  he  saw  posted 
up,  with  dreary  descriptions  of  persons  drowned 
in  the  river,  suggested  the  ’long  shore  men  and 
their  ghastly  calling  whom  he  sketched  in  Hexam 
and  Riderhood.  “ I think,”  he  had  written, 
“ a man,  young  and  perhaps  eccentric,  feigning 
to  be  dead,  and  being  dead  to  all  intents  and 
purposes  external  to  himself,  and  for  years  re- 
taining the  singular  view  of  life  and  character  so 
imparted,  would  be  a good  leading  incident  for 
a story;”  and  this  he  partly  did  in  Rokesmith. 
For  other  actors  in  the  tale,  he  had  thought  of 
“ a poor  impostor  of  a man  marrying  a woman 
for  her  money ; she  marrying  him  for  his  money  ; 
after  marriage  both  finding  out  their  mistake, 
and  entering  into  a league  and  covenant  against 
folks  ill  general with  whom  he  had  proposed 
to  connect  some  Perfectly  New  people.  “ Every- 
thing new  about  them.  If  they  presented  a 
father  and  mother,  it  seemed  as  if  they  must  be 
bran  new,  like  the  furniture  and  the  carriages — 
shining  with  varnish,  and  just  home  from  the 
manufacturers.”  These  groups  took  shape  in 
the  Lammles  and  the  Veneerings.  “ I must  use 
somehow,”  is  the  remark  of  another  letter,  “ the 
uneducated  father  in  fustian  and  the  educated 
boy  in  spectacles  whom  Leech  and  I saw  at 
Chatham  ; ” of  which  a hint  is  in  Charley  Hexam 
and  his  father.  The  benevolent  old  Jew  whom 
he  makes  the  unconscious  agent  of  a rascal,  was 
meant  to  wipe  out  a reproach  against  his  Jew  in 
Oliver  Twist  as  bringing  dislike  upon  the 
religion  of  the  race  he  belonged  to. 

Having  got  his  title  in  1861  it  was  his  hope 
to  have  begun  in ’62.  “Alas!”  he  wrote  in 
the  April  of  that  year,  “ I have  hit  upon  nothing 
for  a story.  Again  and  again  I have  tried.  But 
this  odious  little  house”  (he  had  at  this  time 
for  a few  weeks  exchanged  Gadshill  for  a friend’s 
house  near  Kensington)  “ seems  to  have  stifled 
and  darkened  my  invention.”  It  was  not  until 
the  autumn  of  the  following  year  he  saw  his  way 
to  a beginning.  “ The  Christmas  number  has 


“THE  UNEDUCATED  FATHER  IN  FUSTIAN  AND  THE  EDUCATED  liOY  IN  SrECTACLES.’’ 


days.  My  reason  is,  that  I am  exceedingly 
anxious  to  begin  my  book.  I am  bent  upon  get- 
ting to"  work  at  it.  I want  to  prepare  it  for 
the  spring  ; but  I am  determined  not  to  begin  to 
publish  with  less  than  five  numbers  done.  I see 
my  opening  perfectly,  with  the  one  main  line  on 


which  the  story  is  to  turn  ; and  if  I don’t  strike 
while  the  iron  (meaning  myself)  is  hot,  I shall 
drift  off  again,  and  have  to  go  through  all  this 
uneasiness  once  more.” 

He  had  written,  after  four  months,  very  neaily 
three  numbers,  when  upon  a necessaiy  ic- 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


through  much  difficulty  ; which  he  described  six 
weeks  later,  with  characteristic  glance  at  his  own 
ways  when  writing,  in  a letter  from  the  office  of 
his  journal.  “ I came  here  last  night,  to  evade 
my  usual  day  in  the  week — in  fact  to  shirk  it — 
and  get  back  to  Gads  for  five  or  six  consecutive 


come  round  again”  (30th  of  August  1863)— “it 
seems  only  yesterday  that  I did  the  last — but  I 
am  full  of  notions  besides  for  the  new  twenty 
numbers.  When  I can  clear  the  Christmas 
stone  out  of  the  road,  I think  I can  dash  into 
it  on  the  grander  journey.”  He  persevered 


OUR  MUTUAL  FRIEND. 


373 


j arrangement  of  Iris  cliapters  he  had  hit  upon  a 
j new  subject  for  one  of  them.  “ While  I was 
considering”  (25th  of  February)  “ what  it  should 
be,  Marcus,  who  has  done  an  excellent  cover, 
came  to  tell  me  of  an  extraordinary  trade  he  had 
found  out,  through  one  of  his  painting  require- 
ments. I immediately  went  with  him  to  Saint 
Ciiles’s  to  look  at  the  place,  and  found — what 
you  will  see.”  It  was  the  establishment  of  Mr. 
Venus,  preserver  of  animals  and  birds,  and  arti- 
culator of  human  bones ; and  it  took  the  place 
of  the  last  chapter  of  No.  2,  which  was  then 
transferred  to  the  end  of  No.  3.  But  a start 
with  three  full  numbers  done,  though  more  than 
enough  to  satisfy  the  hardest  self-conditions 
formerly,  did  not  satisfy  him  now.  With  his 
previous  thought  given  to  the  story,  with  his 
Memoranda  to  help  him,  with  the  people  he  had 
in  hand  to  work  it  with,  and  ready  as  he  still 
was  to  turn  his  untiring  observation  to  instant 
use  on  its  behalf,  he  now  moved,  with  the  old 
large  canvas  before  him,  somewhat  slowly  and 
painfully.  “ If  I were  to  lose  ” (29th  of  March) 
“ a page  of  the  five  numbers  I have  pi'oposed  to 
myself  to  be  ready  by  the  publication  day,  I 
should  feel  that  I had  fallen  short.  I have 
grown  hard  to  satisfy,  and  write  very  slowly. 
And  I have  so  much — not  fiction — that  will  be 
thought  of,  when  I don’t  want  to  think  of  it,  that 
I am  forced  to  take  more  care  than  I once  took.” 
The  first  number  was  launched  at  last,  on  the 
first  of  May ; and  after  two  days  he  wrote ; 
“Nothing  can  be  better  than  Our  Friend,  now 
in  his  thirtieth  thousand,  and  orders  flowing  in 
fast.”  Yet  between  the  first  and  second  number 
there  was  a drop  of  five  thousand,  strange  to 
say,  for  the  larger  number  was  again  reached, 
and  much  exceeded,  before  the  book  closed. 
“This  leaves  me”  (loth  of  June)  “going  round 
and  round  like  a carrier-pigeon  before  swooping 
on  number  seven.”  Thus  far  he  had  held  his 
ground;  but  illness  came,  with  some  other 
anxieties,  and  on  the  29th  of  July  he  wrote 
sadly  enough.  “Although  I have  not  been 
wanting  in  industry,  I have  been  wanting  in 
invention,  and  have  fallen  back  with  the  book. 
Looming  large  before  me  is  the  Christmas  work, 
and  I can  hardly  hope  to  do  it  without  losing  a 
j number  of  Our  Friend.  I have  very  nearly  lost 
one  already,  and  two  would  take  one  half  of  my 
I whole  advance.  This  week  I have  been  very 
unwell ; am  still  out  of  sorts  ; and,  as  I know 
from  two  days’  slow  experience,  have  a very 
mountain  to  climb  before  I shall  see  the  open 
country  of  my  work.”  The  three  following 
months  brought  hardly  more  favourable  report. 

“ I have  not  done  my  number.  This  death  of 
I Life  of  Charles  Dickens,  25. 


poor  Leech  (I  suppose)  has  put  me  out  woe- 
fully. Yesterday  and  the  day  before  I could  do 
nothing ; seemed  for  the  time  to  have  quite  lost 
the  power ; and  am  only  by  slow  degrees  getting 
back  into  the  track  to-day.”  He  rallied  after 
this,  and  satisfied  himself  for  a while ; but  in 
February  1865  that  formidable  illness  in  his  foot 
broke  out  which,  at  certain  times  for  the  rest 
of  his  life,  deprived  him  more  or  less  of  his 
inestimable  solace  of  bodily  exercise.  In  April 
and  May  he  suffered  severely ; and  after  trying 
the  sea  went  abroad  for  more  complete  change. 

“ Work  and  worry,  without  exercise,  would  soon 
make  an  end  of  me.  If  I were  not  going  away 
now,  I should  break  down.  No  one  knows  as 
I know  to-day  how  near  to  it  I have  been.” 

That  was  the  day  of  his  leaving  for  France, 
and  the  day  of  his  return  brought  these  few 
hurried  words.  “ Saturday,  tenth  of  June  1865. 

I was  in  the  terrific  Staplehurst  accident  yester-  | 
day,  and  worked  for  hours  among  the  dying  and  | 
dead.  I was  in  the  carriage  that  did  not  go  j 1 
over,  but  went  off  the  line,  and  hung  over  the  j 
bridge  in  an  inexplicable  manner.  No  words 
can  describe  the  scene.*  I am  away  to  Gads.” 
Though  with  characteristic  energy  he  resisted 
the  effects  upon  himself  of  that  terrible  ninth  of  | 

June,  they  were  for  some  time  evident ; and,  up  ! 

to  the  day  of  his  death  on  its  fatal  fifth  anniver-  i 

sary,  were  perhaps  never  wholly  absent.  But  . 

very  few  complaints  fell  from  him.  “ I am  j 

curiously  weak — weak  as  if  I were  recovering  ' 

from  a long  illness.”  “ I begin  to  feel  it  more  I 

in  my  head.  I sleep  well  and  eat  well ; but  I I 

write  half  a dozen  notes,  and  turn  faint  and 
sick.”  “ I am  getting  right,  though  still  low  in  j 

pulse  and  very  nervous.  Driving  into  Rochester  j 

yesterday  I felt  more  shaken  than  I have  since  i 

the  accident.”  “ I cannot  bear  railway  travel-  j 

ling  yet.  A perfect  conviction,  against  the  ' 

senses,  that  the  carriage  is  down  on  one  side  I 

* He  thus  spoke  of  it  in  his  “ Postscript  in  lieu  of 
Preface”  (dated  2nd  of  September  1865),  which  accom-  j ; 
panied  the  last  number  of  the  story  under  notice.  “ On 
Friday  the  ninth  of  June  in  the  present  year  Mr.  and  I < 
Mrs.  Boffin  (in  their  manuscript  dress  of  receiving  Mr.  | 
and  Mrs.  Lammle  at  breakfast)  were  on  the  South- 
Eastern  Railway  with  me,  in  a terribly  destructive  acci-  ! 
dent.  When  I had  done  what  I could  to  help  others,  I 
climbed  back  into  my  carriage — nearly  turned  over  a via- 
duct, and  caught  aslant  upon  the  turn — to  extricate  the 
worthy  couple.  They  were  much  soiled,  but  otherwise 
unhurt.  The  same  happy  result  attended  iNIiss  Bella 
Wilfer  on  her  wedding-day,  and  Jlr.  Riderhood  inspect- 
ing Bradley  Headstone’s  red  neckerchief  as  he  lay  asleep.  | 

I remember  with  devout  thankfulness  that  I can  never  be 
much  nearer  parting  company  with  my  readers  for  ever,  ! 
than  I was  then,  until  there  shall  be  written  against  my  ' 
life  the  two  words  with  which  I have  this  day  closed  this 
book — The  End.” 


433 


374  the  life  of  CHARLES  DLCICENS. 


(and  generally  that  is  the  left,  and  not  the  side 
on  which  the  carriage  in  the  accident  really 
went  over),  comes  upon  me  with  anything  like 
speed,  and  is  inexpressibly  distressing.”  These 
are  passages  from  his  letters  up  to  the  close  of 
June.  Upon  his  book  the  immediate  result  was 
that  another  lost  number  was  added  to  the  losses 
of  the  preceding  months,  and  “alas  ! ” he  wrote 
at  the  opening  of  July,  “for  the  two  numbers 
you  write  of ! There  is  only  one  in  existence. 
I have  but  just  begun  the  other.”  “Fancy!” 
he  added  next  day,  “ fancy  my  having  under- 
written number  sixteen  by  two  and  a half  pages 
— a thing  I have  not  done  since  Pickwick ! ” 
He  did  it  once  with  Dombcy,  and  was  to  do  it 
yet  again. 

The  book  thus  begun  and  continued  under 
adverse  influences,  though  with  fancy  in  it, 
descriptive  power,  and  characters  well  designed, 
will  never  rank  with  his  higher  efforts.  It  has 
some  pictures  of  a rare  veracity  of  soul  amid  the 
lowest  forms  of  social  degradation,  placed  beside 
others  of  sheer  falsehood  and  pretence  amid 
unimpeachable  social  correctness,  which  lifted 
the  writer  to  his  old  place;  but  the  judgment  of 
it  on  the  whole  must  be,  that  it  wants  freshness 
and  natural  development.  This  indeed  will  be 
most  freely  admitted  by  those  who  feel  most 
strongly  that  all  the  old  cunning  of  the  master 
hand  is  yet  in  the  wayward  loving  Bella  Wilfer, 
in  the  vulgar  canting  Podsnap,  and  in  the  dolls’ 
dressmaker  Jenny  Wren,  whose  keen  little 
quaint  weird  ways,  and  precocious  wit  sharp- 
ened by  trouble,  are  fitted  into  a character  as 
original  and  delightfully  conceived  as  it  is 
vividly  carried  through  to  the  last.  A dull 
coarse  web  her  small  life  seems  made  of ; but 
even  from  its  taskwork,  which  is  undertaken  for 
childhood  itself,  there  are  glittering  threads  cast 
across  its  woof  and  warp  of  care.  The  uncon- 
scious philosophy  of  her  tricks  and  manners  has 
in  it  more  of  the  subtler  vein  of  the  satire  aimed 
at  in  the  book,  than  even  the  voices  of  society 
which  the  tale  begins  and  ends  with.  In  her 
very  kindliness  there  is  the  touch  of  malice  that 
shows  a childish  playfulness  familiar  with  un- 
natural privations  ; this  gives  a depth  as  well  as 
tenderness  to  her  humours  which  entitles  them 
to  rank  with  the  writer’s  happiest  things  ; and 
though  the  odd  little  creature’s  talk  is  incessant 
when  she  is  on  the  scene,  it  has  the  individuality 
that  so  seldom  tires.  It  is  veritably  her  own 
small  “ trick  ” and  “ manner,”  and  is  never  mis- 
takeable  for  any  one  clse’s.  “ I have  been 
reading,”  Dickens  wrote  to  me  from  France 
while  he  was  writing  the  book,  “ a capital  little 
story  by  Edmond  About — The  N'otary's  Nose. 


I have  been  trying  other  books ; but  so  infer- 
nally conversational,  that  I forget  who  the  people 
are  before  they  have  done  talking,  and  don’t  in 
the  least  remember  what  they  talked  about  be- 
fore when  they  begin  talking  again  ! ” The 
extreme  contrast  to  his  own  art  could  not  be 
defined  more  exactly ; and  other  e.xamples  from 
this  tale  will  be  found  in  the  differing  members  j 
of  the  Wilfer  family,  in  the  riverside  people  at 
the  Fellowship  Porters,  in  such  marvellous 
serio-comic  scenes  as  that  of  Rogue  Riderhood's 
restoration  from  drowning,  and  in  those  short 
and  simple  annals  of  Betty  Higden’s  life  and 
death  which  might  have  given  saving  virtue  to  a 
book  more  likely  than  this  to  perish  prema- 
turely. It  has  not  the  creative  power  which 
crowded  his  earlier  page,  and  transformed  into 
popular  realities  the  shadows  of  his  fancy ; but 
the  observation  and  humour  he  excelled  in  are 
not  wanting  to  it,  nor  had  there  been,  in  his 
first  completed  work,  more  eloquent  or  gene- 
rous pleading  for  the  poor  and  neglected,  than 
this  last  completed  work  contains.  Betty  Hig-  i 
den  finishes  what  Oliver  Twist  began. 


VI. 

DR.  MARIGOLD’S  PRESCRIPTIONS. 

E had  scarcely  closed  that  book  in 
September,  wearied  somewhat  with 
a labour  of  invention  which  had  not 
been  so  free  or  self-sustaining  as  in 
the  old  facile  and  fertile  days,  when 
customary  contribution  to  Christmas 
became  due  from  him;  and  his  fancy, 
let  loose  in  a narrower  field,  resumed  its 
old  luxury  of  enjoyment.  Here  are  notices  of 
it  from  his  letters.  “ If  people  at  large  under- 
stand a Cheap  Jack,  my  part  of  the  Christmas 
number  will  do  well.  It  is  wonderfully  like  the 
real  thing,  of  course  a little  refined  and  hu- 
moured.” “ I do  hope  that  in  the  beginning 
and  end  of  this  Christmas  number  you  will  find 
something  that  will  strike  you  as  being  fresh, 
forcible,  and  full  of  spirits.”  He  described  its 
mode  of  composition  afterwards.  “ 'hired  with 
Ou)-  Mutual,  I sat  down  to  cast  about  for  an 
idea,  with  a depressing  notion  that  1 was,  for 
the  moment,  overworkcil.  Suddenly,  the  little 
character  that  you  will  sec,  and  all  belonging  to 
it,  came  flashing  uj)  in  the  most  cheerful  man- 
ner, and  I had  only  to  look  on  and  leisurel)- 
describe  it.”  'Phis  was  Dr.  Mari'c^old's  Prescrip- 
tions, one  of  the  most  popular  of  all  the  pieces 


HINTS  FOR  BOOKS. 


375 


■selected  for  his  readings,  and  a splendid  exam- 
jilc  of  his  humour,  pathos,  and  character.  “ I 
j I received  your  letter  in  praise  of  Dr.  Marigold,” 
j i he  writes  to  Lortl  Lytton  (31st  of  December), 

‘ * and  read  and  re-read  all  your  generous  words, 

; ' fifty  times  over,  with  inexpressible  delight.  I 
i cannot  tell  you  how  they  gratified  and  affected 
me.”  The  piece  was  worthy  of  the  praise.  It 
I expressed,  as  perfectly  as  anything  he  has  ever 
I done,  that  which  constitutes  in  itself  very  much 
of  the  genius  of  all  his  writing,  the  wonderful 
neighbourhood  in  this  life  of  ours,  of  serious  and 
I humorous  things ; the  laughter  close  to  the 
i pathos,  but  never  touching  it  with  ridicule. 

'rhere  were  two  more  Christmas  pieces  before 
i he  made  his  last  visit  to  America : Ba)-box 

' Brothers  with  The  Boy  at  Mugby  Station,  and 

i No  Thoroughfare : the  last  a joint  piece  of  work 
i with  l\Ir.  Wilkie  Collins,  who  during  Dickens’s 
j absence  in  the  States  transformed  it  into  a play 
I for  Mr.  Fechter,  with  a view  to  which  it  had 
' j been  planned  originally.  There  were  also  two 
' ! papers  written  for  first  publication  in  Ame- 
rica. George  Silvermaii s Explanation,  and  Holi- 
\ elay  Romance,  containing  about  the  quantity  of 
I half  a shilling  number  of  his  ordinary  serials, 

[ and  paid  for  at  a rate  unexampled  in  literature. 
They  occupied  him  not  many  days  in  the  writ- 
ing, and  he  received  a thousand  pounds  for 
them.  The  same  had  before  been  paid  for 
Hunted  Down.  Reserving  for  mention  in  its 
place  what  was  written  after  his  return,  it  will 
1 be  proper  here  to  interpose,  before  the  closing 
! j word  of  my  criticism,  some  account  of  the 
I ( manuscript  volume  found  among  his  papers 
; containing  memoranda  for  use  in  his  writings ; 
j and  covering  the  period  from  the  opening  of 
1 Little  Do7-rit  to  the  close  of  Our  Mutjcal  Friend. 


\ VII. 

i 

' HINTS  FOR  BOOKS  WRITTEN  AND 

j I UNWRITTEN. 

1855—1865. 

«ICKENS  began  the  Book  of  Memo- 
randa for  possible  use  in  his  work, 
to  which  occasional  reference  has 
j been  made,  in  January  1855,  six 
months  before  the  first  page  of 
Ule  Dorrit  was  written  ; and  I find  no 
j allusion  leading  me  to  suppose,  except 

I in  one  very  doubtful  instance,  that  he 

I I had  made  addition  to  its  entries,  or  been  in  the 
I habit  of  resorting  to  them,  after  the  date  of  Our 


Mutual  Friend.  It  seems  to  comprise  that 
interval  of  ten  years  in  his  life. 

In  it  were  put  down  any  hints  or  suggestions 
that  occurred  to  him.  A mere  piece  of  imagery 
or  fancy,  it  might  be  at  one  time ; at  another 
the  outline  of  a subject  or  a character ; then  a 
bit  of  description  or  dialogue ; no  order  or 
sequence  being  observed  in  any.  Titles  for 
stories  were  set  down  too,  and  groups  of  names 
for  the  actors  in  them ; not  the  least  curious  of 
the  memoranda  belonging  to  this  class.  More 
rarely,  entry  is  made  of  some  oddity  of  speech  ; 
and  he  has  thus  preserved  in  it,  verbatim  et  j 
literatim,  what  he  declared  to  have  been  as 
startling  a message  as  he  ever  received.  A con-  ' 
fidential  servant  at  Tavistock  House,  having 
conferred  on  some  proposed  changes  in  his  bed- 
room with  the  party  that  was  to  do  the  work, 
delivered  this  ultimatum  to  her  master.  “ The 
gas-fitter  says,  sir,  that  he  can’t  alter  the  fitting 
of  your  gas  in  your  bed-room  without  taking  up 
almost  the  ole  of  your  bed-room  floor,  and  pull- 
ing your  room  to  pieces.  He  says,  of  course 
you  can  have  it  done  if  you  wish,  and  he’ll  do  it 
for  you  and  make  a good  job  of  it,  but  he  would 
have  to  destroy  your  room  first,  and  go  entirely 
under  the  jistes.” 

It  is  very  interesting  in  this  book,  last  legacy 
as  it  is  of  the  literary  remains  of  such  a writer, 
to  compare  the  way  in  which  fancies  were 
worked  out  with  their  beginnings  entered  in  its 
pages.  Those  therefore  will  first  be  taken  that 
in  some  form  or  other  appeared  afterwards  in 
his  writings,  with  such  reference  to  the  latter  as 
may  enable  the  reader  to  make  comparison  for 
himself. 

“ Our  House.  Whatever  it  is,  it  is  in  a first- 
rate  situation,  and  a fashionable  neighbourhood. 
(Auctioneer  called  it  ‘ a gentlemanly  residence.’) 

A series  of  little  closets  squeezed  up  into  the 
corner  of  a dark  street — but  a Duke’s  Mansion 
round  the  corner.  The  whole  house  just  large 
enough  to  hold  a vile  smell.  The  air  breathed 
in  it,  at  the  best  of  times,  a kind  of  Distillation  | 
of  Mews.”  He  made  it  the  home  of  the  Bar- 
nacles in  Little  Dorrit. 

What  originally  he  meant  to  express  by  Mrs. 
Clennam  in  the  same  story  has  narrower  limits, 
and  a character  less  repellent,  in  the  hlemoranda 
than  it  assumed  in  the  book.  “ Bed-ridden  (or 
room-ridden)  twenty — five-and-twenty — years  ; j 

any  length  of  time.  As  to  most  things,  kept  at  | 

a standstill  all  the  while.  Thinking  of  altered  | 

streets  as  the  old  streets — changed  things  as  the  ' 

unchanged  things — the  youth  or  girl  I quarrelled  ' 

with  all  those  years  ago,  as  the  same  youth  or 
girl  now.  Brought  out  of  doors  by  an  unex-  | 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


37<J 


pected  exercise  of  my  latent  strength  of  charac- 
ter, and  then  how  strange  ! ” 

One  of  the  people  ot  the  same  story  who  be- 
comes a prominent  actor  in  it,  Henry  Gowan,  a 
creation  on  which  he  prided  himself  as  forcible 
and  new,  seems  to  have  risen  to  his  mind  in  this 
way.  “ I affect  to  believe  that  I would  do  any- 
thing myself  for  a ten-pound  note,  and  that 
anybody  else  would.  1 affect  to  be  always 
book-keeping  in  every  man’s  case,  and  posting 
up  a little  account  of  good  and  evil  with  every 
one.  Thus  the  greatest  rascal  becomes  the 
‘ dearest  old  fellow,’  and  there  is  much  less 
difference  than  you  would  be  inclined  to  sup- 
pose between  an  honest  man  and  a scoundrel. 
While  I affect  to  be  finding  good  in  most  men, 
I am  in  reality  decrying  it  where  it  really  is, 
and  setting  it  up  where  it  is  not.  Might  not  a 
presentation  of  this  far  from  uncommon  class  of 
character,  if  I could  put  it  strongly  enough,  be 
likely  to  lead  some  men  to  reflect,  and  change  a 
little  ? I think  it  has  never  been  done.” 

In  Little  Dorrit  also  will  be  found  a picture 
which  seems  to  live  with  a more  touching  effect 
in  his  first  pleasing  fancy  of  it.  “ The  ferryman 
on  a peaceful  river,  who  has  been  there  from 
youth,  who  lives,  who  grows  old,  who  does  well, 
who  does  ill,  who  changes,  who  dies— the  river 
runs  six  hours  up  and  six  hours  down,  the  cur- 
rent sets  off  that  point,  the  same  allowance  must 
be  made  for  the  drifting  of  the  boat,  the  same 
tune  is  always  played  by  the  rippling  water 
against  the  prow.” 

Here  was  an  entry  made  when  the  thought 
occurred  to  him  of  the  close  of  old  Dorrit’s  life. 
“ First  sign  of  the  father  failing  and  breaking 
down.  Cancels  long  interval.  Begins  to  talk 
about  the  turnkey  who  first  called  him  the 
Father  of  the  Marshalsea — as  if  he  were  still 
living.  ‘ Tell  Bob  I want  to  speak  to  him.  See 
if  he  is  on  the  Lock,  my  dear.’  ” And  here  was 
the  first  notion  of  Clennam’s  reverse  of  fortune. 
“ His  falling  into  difficulty,  and  himself  im- 
prisoned in  the  Marshalsea.  Then  she,  out  of 
all  her  wealth  and  changed  station,  comes  back 
in  her  old  dress,  and  devotes  herself  in  the  old 
way.” 

He  seems  to  have  designed,  for  the  sketches 
of  society  in  the  same  tale,  a “ Full-length  por- 
trait of  his  lordship,  surrounded  by  worship- 
pers;” of  which,  beside  that  brief  memorandum, 
only  his  first  draft  of  the  general  outline  was 
worked  at.  “ Sensible  men  enough,  agreeable 
men  enough,  independent  men  enough  in  a 
certain  way; — but  the  moment  they  begin  to 
circle  round  my  lord,  and  to  shine  with  a bor- 
rowed light  from  his  lordship,  heaven  and  earth 


how  mean  and  subservient ! What  a compe- 
tition and  outbidding  of  each  other  in  servility.” 

The  last  of  the  Memoranda  hints  used  in  the 
story  whose  difficulties  at  its  opening  seem  first 
to  have  suggested  them,  ran  thus : “ The  un- 
wieldy ship  taken  in  tow  by  the  snorting  little 
steam  tug  ” — by  which  was  prefigured  the  patri- 
arch Casby  and  his  agent  Pancks. 

In  a few  lines  are  the  germ  of  the  tale  called 
Hunted  Down ; “ Devoted  to  the  Destruction 
of  a man.  Revenge  built  up  on  love.  The 
secretary  in  the  Wainewright  case,  who  had 
fallen  in  love  (or  supposed  he  had)  with  the 
murdered  girl.” — The  hint  on  which  he  worked 
in  his  description  of  the  villain  of  that  story,  is 
also  in  the  Memoranda.  “ The  man  with  his 
hair  parted  straight  up  the  front  of  his  head, 
like  an  aggravating  gravel-w'alk.  Always  pre- 
senting it  to  you.  ‘ Up  here,  if  you  please. 
Neither  to  the  right  nor  left.  Take  me  exactly 
in  this  direction.  Straight  up  here.  Come  off 
the  grass — ’ ” 

His  first  intention  as  to  the  Tale  of  Twa 
Cities  w’as  to  write  it  upon  a plan  proposed  in 
this  manuscript  book.  “ How  as  to  a story  in 
two  periods — with  a lapse  of  time  between,  like 
a French  drama  ? Titles  for  such  a notion. 
Time  ! The  Leaves  of  the  Forest.  Scat- 
tered Leaves.  The  Great  AV’heel.  Round 
AND  Round.  Old  Leaves.  Long  Ago.  Far 
Apart.  Fallen  Leaves.  Five  and  Twenty 
Years.  Years  and  Years.  Rolling  Years. 
Day  after  Day.  Felled  Trees.  Memory 
Carton.  Rolling  Stones.  Two  Genera- 
tions.” That  special  title  of  Memory  Carton 
shows  that  what  led  to  the  greatest  success  of 
the  book  as  w'ritten  was  always  in  his  mind  ; 
and  another  of  the  memoranda  is  this  rough 
hint  of  the  character  itself.  “ The  drunken  ? — 
dissipated? — What? — Lion — and  his  Jackal 
and  Primer,  stealing  down  to  him  at  unwonted 
hours.” 

In  connection  with  the  same  book,  another 
fancy  may  be  copied  from  which  the  domestici- 
ties of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cruncher  were  taken.  “ A 
man,  and  his  wife — or  daughter — or  niece.  The 
man,  a reprobate  and  ruffian  ; the  woman  (or 
girl)  with  good  in  her,  and  with  comininctions. 
He  believes  nothing,  and  defies  everything  ; yet 
has  suspicions  always,  that  she  is  ‘ praying 
against  ’ his  evil  schemes,  and  making  them  go 
wrong.  He  is  very  much  opposed  tp  this,  and 
is  always  angrily  harping  on  it.  ‘If  %\\<t  nwst 
pray,  why  can’t  she  pray  in  their  favour,  instead 
of  going  against  ’em?  She’s  always  ruining  me — 
she  always  is — and  calls  that.  Duty,  d'hcre’s  a 
religious  person  ! Calls  it  Duly  to  fly  in  my 


H/NTS  FOR  BOOKS. 


face ! Calls  it  Duty  to  go  sneaking  against 
me!’” 

The  studies  of  Silas  Wegg  and  his  patron  as 
they  exist  in  Our  Alutual  Friend,  are  hardly  such 
good  comedy  as  in  the  form  which  the  first 
notion  seems  to  have  intended.  “ Gibbon’s  De- 
cline and  Fall.  The  two  characters.  One  re- 
porting to  the  other  as  he  reads.  Both  getting 
confused  as  to  whether  it  is  not  all  going  on 
now.”  In  the  same  story  may  be  traced,  more 
or  less  clearly,  other  fancies  which  had  found 
their  first  expression  in  the  Memoranda.  A 
touch  for  Bella  AVilfer  is  here.  “ Buying  poor 
shabby— FATHER  ? — a new  hat.  So  incongruous 
that  it  makes  him  like  African  King  Boy,  or 
King  George  ; who  is  usually  full  dressed  when 
he  has  nothing  upon  him  but  a cocked  hat  or  a 
waistcoat.”  Here  undoubtedly  is  the  voice  of 
Podsnap.  “ I stand  by  my  friends  and  ac- 
quaintances ; — not  for  their  sakes,  but  because 
they  are  my  friends  and  acquaintances.  / know 
them,  I have  licensed  them,  they  have  taken 
out  my  certificate.  Ergo,  I champion  them  as 
myself.”  To  the  same  redoubtable  person  an- 
other trait  clearly  belongs.  “ And  by  denying  a 
thing,  supposes  that  he  altogether  puts  it  out  of 
existence.”  A third  very  perfectly  expresses  the 
boy,  ready  for  mischief,  who  does  all  the  work 
there  is  to  be  done  in  Eugene  Wrayburn’s  place 
of  business.  “ The  office  boy  for  ever  looking 
out  of  window,  who  never  has  anything  to  do.” 

The  poor  wayward  purposeless  good-hearted 
master  of  the  boy,  Eugene  himself,  is  as  evi- 
dently in  this  : “ If  they  were  great  things,  I,  the 
untrustworthy  man  in  little  things,  would  do 
them  earnestly — But  O No,  I wouldn’t ! ” AVhat 
follows  has  a more  direct  reference ; being  indeed 
almost  literally  copied  in  the  story.  “ As  to  the 
question  whether  I,  Eugene,  lying  ill  and  sick 
even  unto  death,  may  be  consoled  by  the  repre- 
sentation that  coming  through  this  illness,  I 
shall  begin  a new  life,  and  have  energy  and 
purpose  and  all  I have  yet  wanted:  ‘I hope  1 
should,  but  I ktiow  I shouldn’t.  Let  me  die,  my 
dear.’  ” 

Other  fancies  preserved  in  his  Memoranda 
were  left  wholly  unemployed,  receiving  from  him 
no  more  permanent  form  of  any  kind  than  that 
which  they  have  in  this  touching  record ; and 
what  most  people  would  probably  think  the  most 
attractive  and  original  of  all  the  thoughts  he  had 
thus  set  down  for  future  use,  are  those  that  were 
never  used. 

Here  were  his  first  rough  notes  for  the  open- 
ing of  a story.  “ Beginning  with  the  breaking 
up  of  a large  party  of  guests  at  a country  house  : 
house  left  lonely  with  the  shrunken  family  in  it : 


377 


guests  spoken  of,  and  introduced  to  the  reader 
that  way. — Or,  beginning  with  a house  aban- 
doned by  a family  fallen  into  reduced  circum- 
stances. Their  old  furniture  there,  and  num- 
berless tokens  of  their  old  comforts.  Inscrip- 
tions under  the  bells  downstairs — ‘Mr.  John’s 
Room,’  ‘Miss  Caroline’s  Room.’  Great  gardens 
trimly  kept  to  attract  a tenant : but  no  one  in 
them.  A landscape  without  figures.  Billiard 
room  : table  covered  up,  like  a body.  Great 
stables  without  horses,  and  great  coach-houses 
without  carriages.  Grass  growing  in  the  chinks 
of  the  stone-paving,  this  bright  cold  wintry  day. 
Downhills."  Another  opening  had  also  sug- 
gested itself  to  him.  “ Open  a story  by  bring- 
ing two  strongly  contrasted  places  and  strongly 
contrasted  sets  of  people,  into  the  connexion 
necessary  for  the  story,  by  means  of  an  electric 
message.  Describe  the  message — be  the  mes- 
sage— flashing  along  through  space,  over  the 
earth,  and  under  the  sea.”  Connected  with 
which  in  some  way  would  seem  to  be  this  other 
notion,  following  it  in  the  Memoranda.  “ Re- 
presenting London — or  Paris,  or  any  other  great 
place — in  the  new  light  of  being  actually  un- 
known to  all  the  people  in  the  story,  and  only 
taking  the  colour  of  their  fears  and  fancies  and 
opinions.  So  getting  a new  aspect,  and  being 
unlike  itself.  An  odd  unlikeness  of  itself.” 

The  subjects  for  stories  are  various,  and  some 
are  striking.  There  was  one  he  clung  to  much, 
and  thought  of  frequently  as  in  a special  degree 
available  for  a series  of  papers  in  his  periodical ; 
but  when  he  came  to  close  quarters  with  it  the 
difficulties  were  found  to  be  too  great.  “ English 
landscape.  The  beautiful  prospect,  trim  fields, 
clipped  hedges,  everything  so  neat  and  orderly 
— gardens,  houses,  roads.  Where  are  the  people 
who  do  all  this  ? There  must  be  a great  many 
of  them,  to  do  it.  Where  are  they  all  ? And 
are  they,  too,  so  well  kept  and  so  fair  to  see  ? 
Suppose  the  foregoing  to  be  wrought  out  by 
an  Englishman  : say  from  China  : who  knows 
nothing  about  his  native  country.”  To  which 
may  be  added  a fancy  that  savours  of  the  same 
mood  of  discontent,  political  and  social.  “ How 
do  I know  that  I,  a man,  am  to  learn  from 
insects — unless  it  is  to  learn  how  little  my  little- 
nesses are?  All  that  botheration  in  the  hive 
about  the  queen  bee,  may  be,  in  little,  me  and 
the  court  circular.” 

A domestic  story  he  met  with  in  the  State 
Trials  struck  him  greatly  by  its  capabilities,  and 
I may  preface  it  by  mentioning  another  subject, 
not  entered  in  the  Memoranda,  which  for  a long 
time  impressed  him  as  capable  of  attractive 
treatment.  It  was  after  reading  one  of  the 


THE  LIFE  OE  CHARLES  DLCLCENS. 


witch-trials  that  this  occurred  to  him ; and  the 
heroine  was  to  be  a girl  who  for  a special  pur- 
pose had  taken  a witch’s  disguise,  and  whose 
trick  was  not  discovered  until  she  was  actually 
at  the  stake.  Here  is  the  State  Trials  story  as 
told  by  Dickens.  “ There  is  a case  in  the  State 
Trials,  where  a certain  officer  made  love  to  a 
(supposed)  miser’s  daughter,  and  ultimately  in- 
duced her  to  give  her  father  slow  poison,  while 
nursing  him  in  sickness.  Her  father  discovered 
it,  told  her  so,  forgave  her,  and  said,  ‘ Be 
patient,  my  dear — I shall  not  live  long,  even  if 
I recover  : and  then  you  shall  have  all  my 
wealth.’  Though  penitent  then,  she  afterwards 
poisoned  him  again  (under  the  same  influence), 
and  successfully.  Whereupon  it  appeared  that 
the  old  man  had  no  money  at  all,  and  had  lived 
on  a small  annuity  which  died  with  him,  though 
always  feigning  to  be  rich.  He  had  loved  this 
daughter  with  great  affection.” 

A theme  verging  closely  on  ground  that  some 
might  think  dangerous,  is  sketched  in  the  fol- 
lowing fancy.  “ The  father  (married  young) 
who,  in  perfect  innocence,  venerates  his  son’s 
young  wife,  as  the  realization  of  his  ideal  of 
woman.  (He  not  happy  in  his  own  choice.) 
The  son  slights  her,  and  knows  nothing  of  her 
worth.  The  father  watches  her,  protects  her, 
labours  for  her,  endures  for  her, — is  for  ever 
divided  between  his  strong  natural  affection  for 
his  son  as  his  son,  and  his  resentment  against 
him  as  this  young  creature’s  husband.”  Here 
is  another,  less  dangerous,  which  he  took  from 
an  actual  occurrence  made  known  to  him  when 
he  was  at  Bonchurch.  “ The  idea  of  my  being 
brought  up  by  my  mother  (me  the  narrator), 
my  father  being  dead ; and  growing  up  in  this 
belief  until  I find  that  my  father  is  the  gentleman 
I have  sometimes  seen,  and  oftener  heard  of, 
who  has  the  handsome  young  wife,  and  the  dog 
I once  took  notice  of  when  I was  a little  child, 
and  who  lives  in  the  great  house  and  drives 
about.” 

Very  admirable  is  this.  “ The  girl  separating 
herself  from  the  lover  who  has  shewn  himself 
unworthy — loving  him  still — living  single  for  his 
sake — but  never  more  renewing  their  old  rela- 
tions. Coming  to  him  when  they  are  both 
grown  old,  and  nursing  him  in  his  last  illness.” 
Nor  is  the  following  less  so.  “Two  girls  mis- 
viar tying  two  men.  The  man  who  has  evil  in 
him,  dragging  the  superior  woman  down.  The 
man  who  has  good  in  him,  raising  the  inferior 
woman  up.”  Dickens  would  have  been  at  his 
best  in  working  out  both  fancies. 

In  some  of  the  most  amusing  of  his  sketches 
of  character,  women  also  take  the  lead.  “ The 


lady  un  peu  passee,  who  is  determined  to  be 
interesting.  No  matter  how  much  I love  that 
person — nay,  the  more  so  for  that  very  reason — 
I MUST  flatter,  and  bother,  and  be  weak  and 
apprehensive  and  nervous,  and  what  not.  If  I 
were  well  and  strong,  agreeable  and  self-deny- 
ing, my  friend  might  forget  me.”  Another  not 
remotely  belonging  to  the  same  family  is  as 
neatly  hit  off.  “ The  sentimental  woman  feels 
that  the  comic,  undesigning,  unconscious  man, 
is  ‘ Her  Fate.’ — I her  fate  ? God  bless  my  soul, 
it  puts  me  into  a cold  perspiration  to  think  of 
it.  / her  fate  ? How  can  / be  her  fate  ? I 
don’t  mean  to  be.  I don’t  want  to  have  any- 
thing to  do  with  her. — Sentimental  woman  per- 
ceives nevertheless  that  Destiny  must  be  accom- 
plished.” 

Other  portions  of  a female  group  are  as 
humorously  sketched  and  hardly  less  entertain- 
ing. “The  enthusiastically  complimentary  per- 
son, who  forgets  you  in  her  own  flowery  pro- 
siness ; as — ‘ I have  no  need  to  say  to  a person 
of  your  genius  and  feeling,  and  wide  range  of 
e.xperience  ’ — and  then,  being  shortsighted,  puts 
up  her  glass  to  remember  who  you  are.” — “ TwO’ 
sisters  ” (these  were  real  people  known  to  him). 
“ One  going  in  for  being  generally  beloved 
(which  she  is  not  by  any  means) ; and  the  other 
for  being  generally  hated  (which  she  needn’t 
be).”- — •“  The  bequeathed  maid-servant,  or  friend. 
Left  as  a legacy.  And  a devil  of  a legacy  too.” 
— “ The  woman  who  is  never  on  any  account  to 
hear  of  anything  shocking.  For  whom  the 
world  is  to  be  of  barley-sugar.” — “The  lady 
who  lives  on  her  enthusiasm  ; and  hasn’t  a jot.” 
— “ Bright-eyed  creature  selling  jewels.  The 
stones  and  the  eyes.”  Much  significance  is  in 
the  last  few  words.  One  may  see  to  what  uses 
Dickens  would  have  turned  them. 

A more  troubled  note  is  sounded  in  another 
of  these  female  characters.  “ I am  a common 
woman — fallen.  Is  it  devilry  in  me — is  it  a 
wicked  comfort — what  is  it — that  induces  me  to 
be  always  tempting  other  women  down,  while  I 
hate  myself!”  This  next,  with  as  much  truth 
in  it,  goes  decider  than  the  last.  “ The  irrosti- 
tute  who  will  not  let  one  certain  youth  approach 
her.  ‘ O let  there  be  some  one  in  the  world, 
who  having  an  inclination  towards  me  has  not 
gratified  it,  and  has  not  known  me  in  my  de- 
gradation ! ’ She  almost  loving  him. — Suppose, 
too,  this  touch  in  her  could  not  be  believed  in 
by  his  mother  or  mistress : by  some  handsome 
and  proudly  virtuous  woman,  always  revolting 
from  her.”  A more  agreeable  sketch  than  either 
follows,  though  it  would  not  please  M.  'I'aine  so 
well.  “ The  little  baby-like  married  woman — so 


i 

I 

1 


HINTS  FOR  BOOKS. 


379 


strange  in  her  new  dignity,  and  talking  with  tears 
in  her  eyes,  of  her  sisters  ‘ and  all  of  them  ’ at 
home.  Never  from  home  before,  and  never 
going  back  again.”  Another  from  the  same 
manuscript  volume  not  less  attractive,  which 
was  sketched  from  his  sister-in-law  in  his  own 
home,  I gave  upon  a former  page.""^ 

The  female  character  in  its  relations  with  the 
opposite  sex  has  lively  illustration  in  the  Memo- 
randa. “ The  man  who  is  governed  by  his  wife, 
and  is  heartily  despised  in  consequence  by  all 
other  wives  : who  still  want  to  govern  their  hus- 
bands, notwithstanding.”  An  alarming  family 
pair  follows  that.  “ The  playful — and  scratch- 
ing family.  Father  and  daughter.”  And  here 
is  another.  “ The  agreeable  (and  wicked) 
young-mature  man,  and  his  devoted  sister.” 
What  next  was  set  down  he  had  himself  partly 
seen ; and,  by  enquiry  at  the  hospital  named, 
had  ascertained  the  truth  of  the  rest.  “The 
two  people  in  the  Incurable  Hospital. — The 
! poor  incurable  girl  lying  on  a water-bed,  and 
‘ the  incurable  man  who  has  a strange  flirtation 
i with  her  ; comes  and  makes  confidences  to  her ; 
j snips  and  arranges  her  plants ; and  rehearses  to 
her  the  comic  songs  (!)  by  writing  which  he  ma- 
terially helps  out  his  living.” 

Two  lighter  figures  are  very  pleasantly  touched. 
“ Set  of  circumstances  which  suddenly  bring  an 
easy,  airy  fellow  into  near  relations  with  people 
he  knows  nothing  about,  and  has  never  even 
seen.  This,  through  his  being  thrown  in  the 
way  of  the  innocent  young  personage  of  the 
story.  ‘ Then  there  is  Uncle  Sam  to  be  con- 
sidered,’ says  she.  ‘ Aye  to  be  sure,’  says  he, 

‘ so  there  is  ! By  Jupiter,  I forgot  Uncle  Sam. 
He’s  a rock  ahead,  is  Uncle  Sam.  He  must  be 
considered,  of  course ; he  must  be  smoothed 
down;  he  must  be  cleared  out  of  the  way.  To 
be  sure.  I never  thought  of  Uncle  Sam. — By 
the  bye.  Who  is  Uncle  Sam?’  ” 

There  are  several  such  sketches  as  that,  to  set 
against  the  groups  of  women ; and  some  have 
Dickens’s  favourite  vein  of  satire  in  them.  “The 
man  whose  vista  is  always  stopped  up  by  the 
image  of  Himself.  Looks  down  a long  walk, 
and  can’t  see  round  himself,  or  over  himself,  or 
beyond  himself.  Is  always  blocking  up  his  own 
way.  Would  be  such  a good  thing  for  him  if 
he  could  knock  himself  down.”  Another  pic- 
ture of  selfishness  is  touched  with  greater  deli- 
cacy. “ ‘Too  good  ’ to  be  grateful  to,  or  duti- 
ful to,  or  anything  else  that  ought  to  be.  ‘ I 
won’t  thank  you : you  are  too  good.’ — ‘ Don’t 
ask  me  to  marry  you : you  are  too  good.’ — In 
short,  I don’t  particularly  mind  ill-using  you, 
* Ante,  133. 


and  being  selfish  with  you  : for  you  are  so  good. 
Virtue  its  own  reward  !”  A third,  which  seems 
to  reverse  the  dial,  is  but  another  face  of  it ; [ 

frankly  avowing  faults,  which  are  virtues.  “ In  [ 
effect' — I admit  I am  generous,  amiable,  gentle, 
magnanimous.  Reproach  me — I deserve  it — I 
know  my  faults — I have  striven  in  vain  to  get 
the  better  of  them.”  Dickens  would  have  made 
much,  too,  of  the  working  out  of  the  next. 

“ The  knowing  man  in  distress,  who  borrows  a 
round  sum  of  a generous  friend.  Comes,  in  de- 
pression and  tears,  dines,  gets  the  money,  and 
gradually  cheers  up  over  his  wine,  as  he  ob-  1 
viously  entertains  himself  with  the  reflection  that  j 
his  friend  is  an  eggregious  fool  to  have  lent  it  to 
him,  and  that  he  would  have  known  better.”  [ 
And  so  of  this  other.  “ The  man  who  in-  j 
variably  says  apposite  things  (in  the  way  of  1 
reproof  or  sarcasm)  that  he  don’t  mean. 
Astonished  when  they  are  explained  to  him.” 

Here  is  a fancy  that  I remember  him  to  have 
been  more  than  once  bent  upon  making  use  of ; 
but  the  opportunity  never  came.  “The  two 
men  to  be  guarded  against,  as  to  their  revenge. 
One,  whom  I openly  hold  in  some  serious  ani- 
mosity, whom  I am  at  the  pains  to-  wound  and 
defy,  and  whom  I estimate  as  worth  wounding 
and  defying  ; — the  other,  whom  I treat  as  a sort 
of  insect,  and  contemptuously  and  pleasantly 
flick  aside  with  my  glove.  But,  it  turns  out  to 
be  the  latter  who  is  the  really  dangerous  man  ; 
and,  when  I expect  the  blow  from  the  other,  it 
comes  from  him.''’ 

We  have  the  master  hand  in  the  following  bit 
of  dialogue,  which  takes  wider  application 
than  that  for  which  it  appears  to  have  been  in- 
tended. 

“ ‘ There  is  some  virtue  in  him  too.’ 

“ ‘ Virtue  ! Yes.  So  there  is  in  any  grain  or 
seed  in  a seedsman’s  shop — but  you  must  put  it 
in  the  ground,  before  you  can  get  any  good  out 
of  it.’ 

“ ‘ Do  you  mean  that  he  must  be  put  in  the 
ground  before  any  good  comes  of  him  V 

“ ‘ Indeed  I do.  You  may  call  it  burying 
him,  or  you  may  call  it  sowing  him,  as  you  like. 
You  must  set  him  in  the  earth  before  you  get 
any  good  of  him.’  ” 

One  of  the  entries  is ' a list  of  persons  and 
places  meant  to  have  been  made  subjects  for 
special  description,  and  it  will  awaken  regret 
that  only  as  to  one  of  them  (the  Mugby  Refresh- 
ments) his  intention  was  fulfilled.  “A  Vestry- 
man. A Briber.  A Station  Waiting-Room. 
Refreshments  at  Mugby.  A Physician’s  Wait- 
ing-Room. The  Royal  Academy.  An  Anti- 
quary’s house.  A Sale  Room.  A Picture  Gal- 


I 


380 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICIvENS. 


lery  (for  sale).  A Waste-paper  Shop.  A Post 
Office.  A Theatre.” 

All  will  have  been  given  that  have  particular 
interest  or  value  from  this  remarkable  volume, 
when  the  thoughts  ami  fancies  I proceed  to 
transcribe  have  been  put  before  the  reader. 


“ The  man  who  is  incapable  of  his  own  hap- 
])iness.  Or  who  is  always  in  pursuit  of  happi- 
ness. Result,  Where  is  happiness  to  be  found 
then  ? Surely  not  Everywhere  ? Can  that  be 
so,  after  all?  Is  this  my  experience?” 


“ The  people  who  persist  in  defining  and  ana- 
lysing their  (and  everybody  else’s)  moral  qua- 
lities, motives  and  what  not,  at  once  in  the 
narrowest  spirit  and  the  most  blundering  man- 
ner ; — as  if  one  should  put  up  an  enormous 
scaffolding  for  the  building  of  a pigstye.” 


“The  house  full  of  Toadies  and  Humbugs. 
They  all  know  and  despise  one  another ; but — 
partly  to  keep  their  hands  in,  and  partly  to 
make  out  their  own  individual  cases — pretend 
not  to  detect  one  another.” 


“ People  realising  immense  sums  of  money, 
imaginatively  — speculatively  — counting  their 
chickens  before  hatched.  Inflaming  each  other’s 
imaginations  about  great  gains  of  money,  and 
entering  into  a sort  of  intangible,  impossible, 
competition  as  to  who  is  the  richer.” 


“ The  advertising  sage,  philosopher,  and 
friend  : who  educates  for  the  bar,  the  pulpit,  or 
the  stage.” 


“ The  character  of  the  real  refugee — not  the 
conventional ; the  real.” 


“ The  mysterious  character,  or  characters,  in- 
terchanging confidences.  ‘ Necessary  to  be  very 
careful  in  that  direction.’ — ‘ In  what  direction  ?’ 
— ‘ B.’ — ‘ You  don’t  say  so.  What,  do  you  mean 
that  C ? ’ — ‘ Is  aware  of  D.  Exactly.’  ” 


“The  father  and  boy,  as  I dramatically  see 
them.  Opening  with  the  wild  dance  I have  in 
my  mind.” 


“ The  old  child.  That  is  to  say,  born  of 
parents  advanced  in  life,  and  observing  the 
parents  of  other  children  to  be  young.  Taking 
an  old  tone  accordingly.” 


“ A thoroughly  sulky  character — perverting 
everything.  Making  the  good,  bad— and  the 
bad,  good.” 


“The  people  who  lay  all  their  sins,  negligences 
and  ignorances  on  Providence.” 


“ The  man  who  marries  his  cook  at  last,  after 
being  so  desperately  knowing  about  the  sex.” 


“ The  swell  establishment,  frightfully  mean 
and  miserable  in  all  but  the  ‘ reception  rooms.’ 
Those  very  showy.” 


“ B.  tells  M.  what  my  opinion  is  of  his  work, 
&c.  Quoting  the  man  you  have  once  spoken 
to,  as  if  he  had  talked  a life’s  talk  in  two 
minutes.” 


“ A misplaced  and  mis-married  man  ; always, 
as  it  were,  playing  hide  and  seek  with  the 
world;  and  never  finding  what  Fortune  seems 
to  have  hidden  when  he  was  born.” 


“ Certain  women  in  Africa  who  have  lost  chil- 
dren, carry  little  wooden  images  of  children  on 
their  heads,  and  always  put  their  food  to  the 
lips  of  those  images,  before  tasting  it  themselves, 
i This  is  in  a part  of  Africa  where  the  mortality 
! among  children  (judging  from  the  number  of 
these  little  memorials)  is  very  great.” 


Two  more  entries  are  the  last  which  he  made. 
“ Available  names  ” introduces  a wonderful 
list  in  the  exact  following  classes  and  order : as 
to  which  the  reader  may  be  left  to  his  own 
j memory  for  selection  of  such  as  found  their  way 
I into  the  several  stories  from  Little  Dorrit  to  the 
end.  The  rest,  not  lifted  into  that  higher  notice 
by  such  favour  of  their  creator,  must  remain  like 
any  other  undistinguished  crowd.  But  among 
them  may  perhaps  be  detected,  by  those  who 
have  special  insight  for  the  physiognomy  of  a 
name,  some  few  with  so  great  promise  in  them 
of  fun  and  character  as  will  make  the  “ mute  in- 


HINTS  FOR  BOOKS. 


381 


glorious  ” fate  which  has  befallen  them  a subject 
for  special  regret ; and  much  ingenious  specula- 
tion will  probably  wait  upon  all.  Dickens  has 
generally  been  thought,  by  the  curious,  to  dis- 
l)Iay  not  a few  of  his  most  characteristic  traits 
in  this  particular  field  of  invention. 

First  there  are  titles  for  books ; and  from  the 
list  subjoined  were  taken  two  for  Christmas  num- 
bers and  two  for  stories,  though  Nobody's  Fault 
had  ultimately  to  give  way  to  Little  Dorrit. 


^lore  Girls» 


“SARAH  GOLDSACKS. 
ROSETTA  DUST. 
SUSAN  GOLDRING. 
CATHERINE  TWO. 
MATILDA  RAINBIRD. 
MIRIAM  DENIAL. 
SOPHIA  DOOMSDAY. 


ALICE  THORNEYWORK. 
SALLY  GIMBLET. 
VERITY  HAWKYARD. 
BIRDIE  NASH. 
AMBROSINA  EVENTS. 
APAULINA  VERNON. 
NELTIE  ASHFORD.” 


And  then  come  the  mass  of  his  available 
names,”  which  stand  thus,  without  other  intro- 
duction or  comment : 


“THE  LUMBER  ROOM.  TWO  GENERATIONS. 
SOMEBODY’S  LUGGAGE.  BROKEN  CROCKERY. 
TO  BE  LEFT  TILL  C.\LLED  DUST. 


FOR. 

SOMETHING  WANTED. 
EXTREMES  MEET. 
NOBODY’S  FAULT. 

THE  GRINDSTONE. 
ROKESMITH’S  FORGE. 
OUR  :^IUTUAL  FRIEND. 
THE  CINDER  HEAP. 


THE  HOME  DEPARTMENT. 
THE  YOUNG  PERSON. 

NOW  OR  NEVER. 

MY  NEIGHBOURS. 

THE  CHILDREN  OF  THE 
FATHERS. 

NO  THOROUGHFARE.” 


Then  comes  a batch  of  “ Christian  names  ” : 
Girls  and  Boys  : which  stand  thus,  with  mention 
of  the  source  from  which  he  obtained  them. 
These  therefore  can  hardly  be  called  pure  in- 
vention. Some  would  have  been  reckoned  too 
extravagant  for  anything  but  reality. 


“ Girls  from  Privy  Council  Educatio7i  lists. 


“LELIA. 

MENELLA. 

RUBINA. 

IRIS. 

REBECCA. 

ETTY. 

REBINAH. 


SEBA. 

PERSIA. 

ARAMANDA. 

DORIS. 

BALZINA. 

PLEASANT. 

GENTILLA. 


Boys  fro7u  Privy  Council  Education  lists. 


“ DOCTOR. 
HOMER. 
ODEN. 
BRADLEY. 
ZERUBBABEL. 
MAXIMILIAN. 


URBIN. 

SAMILIAS. 

PICKLES. 

ORANGE. 

FEATHER. 


“ Gb‘ls  and  Boys  fro??i  Ditto. 

“AMANDA,  ETHLYNIDA;  BOETIUS,  BOLTIUS.” 


To  which  he  adds  supplementary  lists  that 
appear  to  be  his  own. 


More  Boys. 


■“  ROBERT  LADLE. 

JOLY  STICK. 

BILL  MARIGOLD. 
STEPHEN  MARQUICK. 
JONATHAN  KNOTWELL. 
PHILIP  BROWNDRESS. 
HENRY  GHOST. 

GEORGE  MUZZLE. 


WALTER  ASHES. 
ZEPHANIAH  FERRY  (OR 
FURY). 

WILLIAiU  WHY. 

ROBERT  GOSPEL. 

THOMAS  FATHERLY. 

ROBIN  SCRUBBAil. 


TOWNDLING. 

MOOD. 

GUFF. 

TREBLE. 

CHILBY. 

SPESSIFER. 

WODDER. 

WHELPFORD. 

FENNERCK. 

GANNERSON. 

CHINKERBLE. 

BINTREY. 

FLEDSON. 

HIRLL. 

BRAYLE. 

MULLENDER. 

TRESLINGHAM. 

BRANKLE. 

SITTERN. 

DOSTONE. 

CAY-LON. 

SNOWELL. 

LOTTRUM. 

LAMMLE. 

FROSER. 

SLYANT. 

QUEEDY. 

BESSELTHUR. 

MUSTY. 

GROUT. 

TERTIUS  JOBBER. 
AMON  HEADSTON. 
STRAYSHOTT. 
HIGDEN. 

MORFIT. 

GOLDSTRAW. 

BARREL. 

INGE. 

JUMP. 

JIGGINS. 

BONES. 

COY. 

DAWN. 

TATKIN. 

DROMWEY. 

PUDSEY. 

WARBLER. 

PEEX — SPEEX. 
GANNA  WAY. 

MRS.  FLINKS. 
PEDSEY. 

DUNCALF. 

TRICKLEBANK, 

SAPSEA. 

READYHUFF. 

DUFTY’. 

FOGGY. 


TWINN. 

BROWNSWORD. 

PEARTREE. 

SUDDS. 

SILVERMAN. 

KIMBER. 

LAUGHLEY'. 

LESSOCK. 

TIPPINS. 

MINNITT. 

RADLOWE. 

PRATCHET. 

MAWDETT. 

YVOZENHAM. 

STILTWALK, 

STILTINGSTALK. 

STILTSTALKING. 

RAVENDER. 

HOLBLACK. 

MULLEY\ 

REDWORTH, 

REDFOOT. 

TARBOX  (b) 

TINKLING. 

DUDDLE. 

JEBUS. 

POWDERHILL. 

GRIMMER. 

SKUSE. 

TITCOOMBE. 

GRABBLE. 

SWANNOCK. 

TUZZEN. 

TWEMLOW. 

SQUAB. 

JACKMAN. 

SUGG. 

BREMMIDGE. 

SILAS  BLODGET. 

MELVIN  BEAL. 

BUTTRICK. 

EDSON. 

SANLORN. 

LIGHTWORD. 

TITBULL. 

BANGHAM. 

KYmE — NYLE. 
PEMBLE. 

MAXEY'. 

ROKESMITH. 

CHIVERY'. 

FLINKS. 

JEE. 

HARDEN. 

MERDLE. 

MURDEN. 

TOPWASH. 


38^ 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DLCKENS. 


rORDAGE. 

DORRET — DORRIT. 
CARTON. 

MINIFIE. 

SLINGO. 

JOAU. 

KINCH. 

MAG. 

CHELLYSON. 

BLENNAM — CL. 
BARDOCK. 
■SNIGSWORTH. 
SWENTON. 

CASBY — BEACH. 
LOWLEIGH— LOWELY. 
PIGRIN. 

YERBURY. 

PLORNISH. 

M.^ROON. 

BANDY-NANDY. 

STONEBURY. 

MAGWITCH. 

MEAGLES. 

PANCKS. 

HAGGAGE. 

PROVIS. 

STILTINGTON. 

PODSNAP. 

CLARRIKER. 


COMPERY. 

STRIVER— STRYVER. 

PUMBLECHOOK. 

WANGLER. 

BOFFIN. 

BANTINCK. 

DIBTON. 

WILFER. 

GLIBBERY. 

MULVEY. 

HORLICK. 

DOOLGE. 

GANNERY. 

GARGERY. 

■VVILLSHARD. 

RIHERHOOD. 

PR.YTTERSTONE. 

CHINKIBLE. 

WOP.SELL. 

WOPSLE. 

WHELPINGTON. 

G.YYVERY. 

WEGG. 

HUBBLE. 

URRY. 

KIBBLE. 

SKIFFINS. 

ETSER. 

.YKERSHEM.” 


The  last  of  the  Memoranda,  and  the  last  words 
written  by  Dickens  in  the  blank  paper  book  con- 
taining them,  are  these.  “ ‘ Then  I’ll  give  up 
snuff.’  Brobity. — An  alarming  sacrifice.  Mr. 
Brobity’s  snuff-box.  The  Pawnbroker’s  account 
of  it.”  What  was  proposed  by  this  must  be  left 
to  conjecture ; but  “ Brobity  ” is  the  name  of 
one  of  the  people  in  his  unfinished  story,  and  the 
suggestion  may  have  been  meant  for  some  inci- 
dent in  it.  If  so,  it  is  the  only  passage  in  the 
volume  Avhich  can  be  in  any  way  connected  with 
the  piece  of  writing  on  which  he  was  last  en- 
gaged. Some  names  were  taken  for  it  from  the 
lists,  but  there 
Edwin  Drood. 


is 


otherwise  nothing  to  recall 


VIII. 


CLOSING  WORD. 

HE  year  after  America,  as  the  reader 
knows,  saw  the  commencement  of 
the  work  which  death  interrupted. 
Tlie  fragment  will  hereafter  be  de- 
scribed ; and  here  meanwhile  may 
close  my  criticism^ — itself  a fragment 
left  for  worthier  completion  by  a stronger 
hand  than  mine.  It  suffices  for  the  pre- 
sent to  have  attempted  to  clear  the  ground  from 
those  distinctions  and  comparisons  never  safely 
to  be  applied  to  an  original  writer,  and  which 
always  more  or  less  intercept  his  fair  appre- 
ciation. 


It  was  long  the  fashion,  with  critics  of  authority, 
to  set  up  wide  divergences  between  novels  of 
incident  and  manners,  and  novels  of  character ; 
the  narrower  range  being  left  to  Fielding  and 
Smollett,  and  the  larger  to  Richardson ; yet 
there  are  not  many  now  who  will  accept  such 
classification.  Nor  is  there  more  truth  in  other 
like  distinctions  alleged  between  novelists  who 
are  assumed  to  be  real,  or  ideal,  in  their  methods 
of  treatment.  To  any  original  novelist  of  the 
higher  grade  there  is  no  meaning  in  these  con- 
trasted phrases.  Neither  mode  can  exist  at  all 
perfectly  without  the  other.  No  matter  how 
sensitive  the  mind  to  external  impressions,  or 
how  keen  the  observation  to  whatever  can  be 
seen,  without  the  rarer  seeing  of  imagination 
nothing  will  be  arrived  at  that  is  real  in  any 
genuine  artist-sense.  Reverse  the  proposition, 
and  the  result  is  expressed  in  an  excellent  re- 
mark of  Lord  Lytton’s,  that  the  happiest  effort 
of  imagination,  however  lofty  it  may  be,  is  that 
which  enables  it  to  be  cheerfully  at  home  with 
the  real.  I have  said  that  Dickens  felt  criticism, 
of  whatever  kind,  with  too  sharp  a relish  for  the 
indifference  he  assumed  to  it ; but  the  secret 
was  that  he  believed  himself  to  be  entitled  to 
higher  tribute  than  he  was  always  in  the  habit 
of  receiving.  It  was  the  feeling  which  suggested 
a memorable  saying  of  Wordsworth.  “ I am 
not  at  all  desirous  that  any  one  should  write  a 
critique  on  my  poems.  If  they  be  from  above, 
they  will  do  their  own  work  in  course  of  time ; 
if  not,  they  will  perish  as  they  ought.” 

The  something  “ from  above  ” never  seems  to 
me  absent  from  Dickens,  even  at  its  worst. 
When  the  strain  upon  his  invention  became 
apparent,  and  he  could  only  work  freely  in  a 
more  confined  space  than  of  old,  it  was  still 
able  to  assert  itself  triumphantly  ; and  his  in- 
fluence over  his  readers  was  continued  by  it  to 
the  last  day  of  his  life.  Looking  back  over  the 
series  of  his  writings,  the  first  reflection  that 
rises  to  the  mind  of  any  thoughtful  person,  is 
one  of  thankfulness  that  the  most  popular  of 
writers,  who  had  carried  into  the  lowest  scenes 
and  conditions  an  amount  of  observation,  fun, 
and  humour  not  approached  by  any  of  his  con- 
temporaries, should  never  have  sullied  that 
world-wide  influence  by  a hint  of  impurity  or  a 
possibility  of  harm.  Nor  is  there  anything  more 
surprising  than  the  freshness  and  variety  of  cha- 
racter which  those  writings  include  within  the 
range  of  the  not  numerous  types  of  character 
that  were  the  limit  of  their  author’s  genius. 
For,  this  .also  ajipears,  upon  any  review  of  them 
collectively,  that  the  teeming  life  which  is  in 
them  is  that  of  the  time  in  which  his  own  life 


r 


CLOSING  WORD. 


was  passed ; and  that  with  the  purpose  of  show- 
ing vividly  its  form  and  pressure,  was  joined  the 
hope  and  design  to  leave  it  better  than  he  found 
it.  It  has  been  objected  that  humanity  receives 
from  him  no  addition  to  its  best  types ; that  the 
burlesciue  humourist  is  always  stronger  in  him 
than  the  reflective  moralist;  that  the  light  throvyn 
by  his  genius  into  out  of  the  way  corners  of  life 
never  steadily  shines  in  its  higher  beaten  ways ; 
and  that  beside  his  pictures  of  what  man  is  or 
does,  there  is  no  attempt  to  show,  by  delineation 
of  an  exalted  purpose  or  a great  career,  what 
man  is  able  to  be  or  to  do.  In  the  charge 
abstractedly  there  is  truth ; but  the  fair  remark 
upon  it  is  that  whatever  can  be  regarded  as 
essential  in  the  want  implied  by  it  will  be  found 
in  other  forms  in  his  writings,  that  the  perfect 
innocence  of  their  laughter  and  tears  has  been 
itself  a prodigious  blessing,  and  that  it  is  other- 
wise incident  to  so  great  a humourist  to  work 
after  the  fashion  most  natural  to  the  genius  of 
humour.  What  kind  of  work  it  has  been  in  his 
case,  the  attempt  is  made  in  preceding  pages  to 
show ; and  on  the  whole  it  can  be  said  with 
some  certainty  that  the  best  ideals  in  this  sense 
are  obtained,  not  by  presenting  with  added  come- 
liness or  grace  the  figures  which  life  is  ever  eager 
to  present  as  of  its  best,  but  by  connecting  the 
singularities  and  eccentricities  which  ordinary 
life  is  apt  to  reject  or  overlook,  with  the  appre- 
ciation that  is  deepest  and  the  laws  of  insight 
that  are  most  universal.  It  is  thus  that  every- 
thing human  is  happily  brought  within  human 
sympathy.  It  was  at  the  heart  of  whatever 
Dickens  wrote,  making  him  the  intimate  of  every 
English  household,  and  a familiar  friend  wherever 
the  language  is  spoken  whose  stores  of  harmless 
pleasure  he  has  so  largely  increased.  Above  all 
it  was  the  secret  of  the  hope  he  had  that  his 
books  might  help  to  make  people  better  ; and  it 
so  guarded  them  from  evil,  that  there  is  scarcely 
a page  of  the  thousands  he  has  written  which 
might  not  be  put  into  the  hands  of  a little 
child. 

I borrow  that  expression  from  the  Eishop  of 
Manchester,  who,  on  the  third  day  after  Dickens’s 
death,  in  the  Abbey  where  he  was  so  soon  to  be 
laid,  closed  a plea  for  the  toleration  of  differences 
of  opinion  where  the  foundations  of  religious 
truth  are  accepted,  with  these  words.  “ It  will 
not  be  out  of  harmony  with  the  line  of  thought 
we  have  been  pursuing — certainly  it  will  be  in 
keeping  with  the  associations  of  this  place,  dear 
to  Englishmen,  not  only  as  one  of  the  proudest 
Christian  temples,  but  as  containing  the  memo- 
rials of  so  many  who  by  their  genius  in  arts,  or 
arms,  or  statesmanship,  or  literature,,  have  made 


383 

England  what  she  is — if  in  the  simplest  and 
briefest  words  I allude  to  that  sad  and  unex- 
pected death  which  has  robbed  English  litera- 
ture of  one  of  its  highest  living  ornaments,  and 
the  news  of  which,  two  mornings  ago,  must  have 
made  every  household  in  England  feel  as  though 
they  had  lost  a personal  friend.  He  has  been 
called  in  one  notice  an  apostle  of  the  people.  I 
suppose  it  is  meant  that  he  had  a mission,  but 
in  a style  and  fashion  of  his  own ; a gospel,  a 
cheery,  joyous,  gladsome  message,  which  the 
people  understood,  and  by  which  they  could 
hardly  help  being  bettered ; for  it  was  the  gospel 
of  kindliness,  of  brotherly  love,  of  sympathy  in 
the  widest  sense  of  the  word.  I am  sure  I have 
felt  in  myself  the  healthful  spirit  of  his  teaching. 
Possibly  we  might  not  have  been  able  to  sub- 
scribe to  the  same  creed  in  relation  to  God,  but 
I think  we  should  have  subscribed  to  the  same 
creed  in  relation  to  man.  He  who  has  taught  us 
our  duty  to  our  fellow  men  better  than  we  knew 
it  before,  who  knew  so  well  to  weep  with  them 
that  wept,  and  to  rejoice  with  them  that  rejoiced, 
who  has  shown  forth  in  all  his  knowledge  of  the 
dark  corners  of  the  earth  how  much  sunshine 
may  rest  upon  the  lowliest  lot,  who  had  such 
evident  sympathy  with  suffering,  and  such  a 
natural  instinct  of  purity  that  there  is  scarcely  a 
page  of  the  thousands  he  has  written  which 
might  not  be  put  into  the  hands  of  a little  child, 
must  be  regarded  by  those  who  recognise  the 
diversity  of  the  gifts  of  the  spirit  as  a teacher 
sent  from  God.  He  would  have  been  welcomed 
as  a fellow-labourer  in  the  common  interests  of 
humanity  by  Him  who  asked  the  question  ‘ If  a 
man  love  not  his  brother  whom  he  hath  seen, 
how  can  he  love  God  whom  he  hath  not 
seen  ? ’ ” 

“ The  loss  of  no  single  man  during  the  pre- 
sent generation,  if  we  except  Abraham  Lincoln 
alone,”  said  Mr.  Horace  Greeley,  describing  the 
profound  and  universal  grief  of  America  at  his 
death,  “ has  carried  mourning  into  so  many 
families,  and  been  so  unaffectedly  lamented 
through  all  the  ranks  of  society.”  “ The  terrible 
news  from  England,”  wrote  Longfellow  to  me 
(Cambridge,  Mass.  12th  of  June  1870),  “fills  us 
all  with  inexpressible  sadness.  Dickens  was  so 
full  of  life  that  it  did  not  seem  possible  he  could 
die,  and  yet  he  has  gone  before  us,  and  we  are 

sorrowing  for  him I never  knew  an 

author’s  death  cause  such  general  mourning.  It 
is  no  exaggeration  to  say  that  this  whole  country 
is  stricken  with  grief.  . . . .”  Nor  was  evidence 
then  wanting,  that  far  beyond  the  limits  of  society 
on  that  vast  continent  the  English  writer’s  in- 
fluence had  penetrated.  Of  this,  very  touching 


t 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


illustration  was  given  on  a former  page ; and 
proof  even  more  striking  has  since  been  afforded 
to  me,  that  not  merely  in  wild  or  rude  commu- 
nities, but  in  life  the  most  savage  and  solitary, 
his  genius  had  helped  to  while  time  away. 

“•  Like  all  Americans  who  read,”  writes  an 


American  gentleman,  “and  that  takes  in  nearly 
all  our  people,  I am  an  admirer  and  student  of 

Dickens Its  perusal  ” (that  of  my  second 

volume)  “ has  recalled  an  incident  which  may  in- 
terest you.  Twelve  or  thirteen  years  ago  I crossed 
the  Sierra  Nevada  mountains  as  a Government 


surveyor  under  a famous  frontiersman  and  civil  , to  the  valleys  where  there  tvas  pasturage  and 
engineer — Colonel  Lander.  We  were  too  early  . running  water.  This  was  a long  and  difiicult 
by  a month,  and  became  snow-bound  just  on  I task,  occupying  several  days.  On  the  second 
the  very  summit.  Under  these  circumstances  it  | day,  in  a spot  where  we  expected  to  find  nothing  [ 
was  necessary  to  abandon  the  wagons  for  a time,  ! more  human  than  a gri/./.ly  bear  or  an  elk,  we 
and  drive  the  stock  (mules)  down  the  mountains  ; found  a liflle  hut,  built  of  pine  boughs  and  a 


SAM  WKLLEK  IN  SIERRA  NEVADA. 


AMERICA:  NOVEMBER  AND  DECEMBER,  1867. 


385 


few  rough  boards  clumsily  hewn  out  of  small 
trees  with  an  axe.  The  hut  was  covered  with 
snow  many  feet  deep,  excepting  only  the  hole 
in  the  roof  which  served  for  a chimney,  and  a 
small  pit-like  place  in  front  to  permit  egress. 
The  occupant  came  forth  to  hail  us  and  solicit 
whisky  and  tobacco.  He  was  dressed  in  a suit 
made  entirely  of  flour-sacks,  and  was  curiously 
labelled  on  various  parts  of  his  person  Best 
Family  Flour.  Extra.  His  head  was  covered 
by  a wolfs  skin  drawn  from  the  brute’s  head — 
with  the  ears  standing  erect  in  a fierce  alert 
manner.  He  was  a most  extraordinary  object, 
and  told  us  he  had  not  seen  a human  being  in 
four  months.  He  lived  on  bear  and  elk  meat 


and  flour,  laid  in  during  his  short  summer. 
Emigrants  in  the  season  paid  him  a kind  of 
ferry-toll.  I asked  him  how  he  passed  his  time, 
and  he  went  to  a barrel  and  produced  Nicholas 
Nickleby  and  Pickwick.  I found  he  knew  them 
almost  by  heart.  He  did  not  know,  or  seem  to 
care,  about  the  author ; but  he  gloried  in  Sam 
Weller,  despised  Squeers,  and  would  probably 
have  taken  the  latter’s  scalp  with  great  skill  and 
cheerfulness.  For  Mr.  Winkle  he  had  no  feeling 
but  contempt,  and  in  fact  regarded  a fowling- 
piece  as  only  a toy  for  a squaw.  He  had  no 
Bible ; and  perhaps  if  he  practised  in  his  rude 
savage  way  all  Dickens  taught,  he  might  less 
have  felt  the  want  even  of  that  companion.” 


BOOK  TENTH.— AMERICA  REVISITED. 

1867 — 1868.  JEt.  55 — 56. 

I.  November  and  December,  1867.  | II.  January  to  April,  1868. 


I. 


AMERICA : NOVEMBER  AND  DECEMBER. 

1867. 

; T is  the  intention  of  this  and  the 
following  chapter  to  narrate  the  in- 
cidents of  the  visit  to  America  in 
Dickens’s  own  language,  and  in  that 
only.  They  will  consist  almost  ex- 
clusively of  extracts  from  his  letters 
written  home,  to  members  of  his  family 
and  to  myself. 

On  the  night  of  Tuesday  the  19th  of  Novem- 
ber he  arrived  at  Boston,  where  he  took  up  his 
residence  at  the  Parker  House  hotel ; and  his 
first  letter  (21st)  stated  that  the  tickets  for  the 
first  four  Readings,  all  to  that  time  issued,  had 
been  sold  immediately  on  their  becoming  sale- 
able. “ An  immense  train  of  people  waited  in 
the  freezing  street  for  twelve  hours,  and  passed 
into  the  office  in  their  turns,  as  at  a French 
theatre.  The  receipts  already  taken  for  these 
nights  exceed  our  calculation  by  more  than 
^£"250.”  Up  to  the  last  moment  he  had  not 
been  able  to  clear  off  wholly  a shade  of  misgiving 
that  some  of  the  old  grudges  might  make  them- 
selves felt ; but  from  the  instant  of  his  setting 
foot  in  Boston  not  a vestige  of  such  fear  re- 


mained. The  greeting  was  to  the  full  as  extra- 
ordinary as  that  of  twenty-five  years  before,  and 
was  given  now,  as  then,  to  the  man  who  had 
made  himself  the  most  popular  writer  in  the 
country.  His  novels  and  tales  \vere  crowding 
the  shelves  of  all  the  dealers  in  books  in  all  the 
cities  of  the  Union.  In  every  house,  in  every 
car,  on  every  steam-boat,  in  every  theatre  of 
America,  the  characters,  the  fancies,  the  phrase- 
ology of  Dickens  were  become  familiar  beyond 
those  of  any  other  writer  of  books.  “ Even  in 
England,”  said  one  of  the  New  York  journals, 
“ Dickens  is  less  known  than  here ; and  of  the 
millions  here  who  treasure  every  word  he  has 
written,  there  are  tens  of  thousands  who  w'ould 
make  a large  sacrifice  to  see  and  hear  the  man 
who  has  made  happy  so  many  hours.  Whatever 
sensitiveness  there  once  was  to  adverse  or  sneer- 
ing criticism,  the  lapse  of  a quarter  of  a century, 
and  the  profound  significance  of  a great  war, 
have  modified  or  removed.”  The  point  was 
more  pithily,  and  as  truly,  put  by  Mr.  Horace 
Greeley  in  the  Tribune.  “ The  fame  as  a novelist 
which  Mr.  Dickens  had  already  created  in 
America,  and  wfliich,  at  the  best,  has  never 
yielded  him  anything  particularly  munificent  or 
substantial,  is  become  his  capital  stock  in  the 
present  enterprise.” 

The  first  Reading  w'as  appointed  forthe  second 
of  December,  and  in  the  interval  he  saw  some 


.-.86  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS, 


old  friends  and  made  some  new  ones.  Boston 
he  was  fond  of  comparing  to  Edinburgh  as  Edin- 
burgh was  in  the  days  when  several  dear  friends 
of  his  own  still  lived  there.  Twenty-five  years 
had  changed  much  in  the  American  city ; some 
genial  faces  were  gone,  and  on  ground  which  he 
had  left  a swamp  he  found  now  the  most  princely 
streets ; but  there  was  no  abatement  of  the  old 
warmth  of  kindness,  and,  with  every  attention 
and  consideration  shown  to  him,  there  was  no 
intrusion.  He  was  not  at  first  completely  con- 
scious of  the  change  in  this  respect,  or  of  the 
prodigious  increase  in  the  size  of  Boston.  But 
the  latter  grew  upon  him  from  day  to  day,  and 
then  there  was  impressed  along  with  it  a contrast 
to  which  it  was  difficult  to  reconcile  himself. 
Nothing  enchanted  him  so  much  as  what  he 
again  saw  of  the  delightful  domestic  life  of  Cam- 
bridge, simple,  self-respectful,  cordial,  and  affec- 
I tionate ; and  it  seemed  impossible  to  believe 
I that  within  half  an  hour’s  distance  of  it  should  be 
j found  what  might  at  any  time  be  witnessed  in  such 
I hotels  as  that  which  he  was  staying  at : crowds 
of  swaggerers,  loafers,  bar-loungers,  and  dram- 
drinkers,  that  seemed  to  be  making  up,  from 
day  to  day,  not  the  least  important  part  of  the 
human  life  of  the  city.  But  no  great  mercantile 
I ^ resort  in  the  States,  such  as  Boston  had  now 
I , become,  could  be  without  that  drawback ; and 
I i fortunate  should  we  account  any  place  to  be, 
i j though  even  so  plague-afflicted,  that  has  yet  so 
near  it  the  healthier  influence  of  the  other  life 
I which  our  oldef  . world  has  well-nigh  lost  alto- 
gether. 

“ The  city  has  increased  prodigiously  in 
twenty-five  years,”  he  wrote  to  his  daughter 
Mary.  “ It  has  grown  more  mercantile.  It  is 
like  Leeds  mixed  with  Preston,  and  flavoured 
with  New  Brighton.  Only,  instead  of  smoke 
and  fog,  there  is  an  exquisitely  bright  light  air.” 
“ Cambridge  is  exactly  as  I left  it,”  he  wrote  to 
me.  “ Boston  more  mercantile,  and  much 
larger.  The  hotel  I formerly  stayed  at,  and 
thought  a very  big  one,  is  now  regarded  as  a 
very  small  affair.  I do  not  yet  notice — but  a 
day,  you  know,  is  not  a long  time  for  observa- 
tion ! — any  marked  change  in  character  or  habits. 
In  this  immense  hotel  I live  very  high  up,  and 
have  a hot  and  cold  bath  in  my  bed-room,  with 
other  comforts  not  in  existence  in  my  former 
day.  The  cost  of  living  is  enormous.”  “Two 
of  the  staff  are  at  New  York,”  he  wrote  to  his 
sister-in-law  on  the  25th  of  November,  “where 
we  are  at  our  wits’  end  how  to  keep  tickets  out 
of  the  hands  of  speculators.  We  have  com- 
munications from  all  parts  of  the  country,  but 
we  take  no  offer  whate^'er.  The  young  under- 


graduates of  Cambridge  have  made  a reiwesen- 
tation  to  Longfellow  that  they  are  500  strong 
and  cannot  get  one  ticket.  I don’t  know  what 
is  to  be  done,  but  I suppose  I must  read  there, 
somehow.  We  are  all  in  the  clouds  until  I shall 
have  broken  ground  in  New  York.”  The  sale 
of  tickets,  there,  had  begun  two  days  before  the 
first  reading  in  Boston.  “At  the  Nevv'  York 
barriers,”  he  wrote  to  his  daughter  on  the  first 
of  December,  “ where  the  tickets  were  on  sale 
and  the  people  ranged  as  at  the  Paris  theatres, 
speculators  went  up  and  down  offering  twenty 
dollars  for  any  body’s  place.  The  money  was 
in  no  case  accepted.  But  one  man  sold  two 
tickets  for  the  second,  third,  and  fourth  nights  ; 
his  payment  in  exchange  being  one  ticket  for 
the  first  night,  fifty  dollars  (about  los.),  and 
a ‘ brandy  cock-tail.’  ” 

On  Monday  the  second  of  December  he  read 
for  the  first  time  in  Boston,  his  subjects  being 
the  Carol  and  the  Trial  from  Pickiaick ; and  his 
reception,  from  an  audience  than  which  perhaps 
none  more  remarkable  could  have  been  brought 
together,  went  beyond  all  expectations  formed. 
“ It  is  really  impossible,”  he  wrote  to  me  next 
morning,  “ to  exaggerate  the  magnificence  of  the 
reception  or  the  effect  of  the  reading.  The 
whole  city  will  talk  of  nothing  else  and  hear  of 
nothing  else  to-day.  Every  ticket  for  those  an- 
nounced here,  and  in  New  York,  is  sold.  All 
are  sold  at  the  highest  price,  for  which  in  our 
calculation  we  made  no  allowance ; and  it  is 
impossible  to  keep  out  speculators  who  imme- 
diately sell  at  a jiremium.  At  the  decreased 
rates  of  money  even,  we  had  above  ^450 
English  in  the  house  last  night;  and  the  New 
York  hall  holds  500  people  more.  Everything 
looks  brilliant  beyond  the  most  sanguine  hopes, 
and  I was  quite  as  cool  last  night  as  though  I 
were  reading  at  Chatham.”  The  next  night  he 
read  again;  and  also  on  Thursday  and  Friday; 
on  Wednesday  he  had  rested ; and  on  Saturday 
he  travelled  to  New  York. 

He  had  written,  the  day  before  he  left,  that 
he  was  making  a clear  profit  of  thirteen  hundred 
pounds  English  a week,  even  allowing  seven 
dollars  to  the  pound ; but  words  were  added 
having  no  good  omen  in  them,  that  the  weather 
was  taking  a turn  of  even  unusual  severity,  and 
that  he  found  the  climate,  in  the  suddenness  of 
its  changes,  “ and  the  wide  leaps  they  take,” 
excessively  trying.  “ The  work  is  of  course 
rather  trying  too ; but  the  sound  position  that 
everything  must  be  subservient  to  it  enables  me 
to  keep  aloof  from  invitations.  To-morrow,” 
ran  the  close  of  the  letter,  “we  move  to  New 
York.  AVc  cannot  beat  the  speculators  in  our 


AMERICA:  NOVEMBER 


tickets.  We  sell  no  more  than  six  to  any  one 
l)crson  for  the  course  of  four  readings  ; but  these 
speculators,  who  sell  at  greatly  increased  prices 
and  make  large  ])rofits,  will  employ  any  number 
of  men  to  buy.  One  of  the  chief  of  them — now 
living  in  this  house,  in  order  that  he  may  move 
as  we  move  ! — can  put  on  50  people  in  any 
place  wc  go  to ; and  thus  he  gets  300  tickets 
into  his  own  hands.”  Almost  while  Dickens 
was  writing  these  words  an  eye-witness  was  de- 
scribing to  a Philadelphia  paper  the  sale  of  the 
New  York  tickets.  The  pay-place  was  to  open 
at  nine  on  a Wednesday  morning,  and  at  mid- 
night of  Tuesday  a long  line  of  speculators  were 
assembled  in  queue ; at  two  in  the  morning  a 
;cw  honest  buyers  had  begun  to  arrive;  at  five 
there  were,  of  all  classes,  two  lines  of  not  less 
than  800  each ; at  eight  there  were  at  least  5000 
persons  in  the  two  lines ; at  nine  each  line  was 
more  than  three-quarters  of  a mile  in  length,  and 
neither  became  sensibly  shorter  during  the  whole 
morning.  “ The  tickets  for  the  course  were 
all  sold  before  noon.  Members  of  families 
relieved  each  other  in  the  queues ; waiters  flew 
across  the  streets  and  squares  from  the  neigh- 
bouring restaurant,  to  serve  parties  who  were 
taking  their  breakfast  in  the  open  December  air ; 
while  excited  men  offered  five  and  ten  dollars  for 
the  mere  permission  to  exchange  places  with  other 
persons  standing  nearer  the  head  of  the  line  ! ” 
The  effect  of  the  reading  in  New  York  corre- 
sponded with  this  marvellous  preparation,  and 
Dickens  characterised  his  audience  as  an  unex- 
pected support  to  him  : in  its  appreciation  quick 
and  unfailing,  and  highly  demonstrative  in  its 
satisfactions.  On  the  nth  of  December  he 
wrote  to  his  daughter:  “Amazing  success.  A 
very  fine  audience,  far  better  than  at  Boston. 
Carol  and  Trial  on  first  night,  great : still  greater, 
Coppcrjield  and  Bob  Saiuycr  on  second.  For 
the  tickets  of  the  four  readings  of  next  week 
there  were,  at  nine  o’clock  this  morning,  3000 
people  in  waiting,  and  they  had  begun  to  as- 
semble in  the  bitter  cold  as  early  as  two  o’clock 
in  the  morning.”  To  myself  he  wrote  on  the 
15th,  adding  touches  to  the  curious  picture. 
“ Dolby  has  got  into  trouble  about  the  manner 
of  issuing  the  tickets  for  next  week’s  series.  He 
cannot  get  four  thousand  people  into  a room 
holding  only  two  thousand,  he  cannot  induce 
people  to  pay  at  the  ordinary  price  for  them- 
selves instead  of  giving  thrice  as  much  to  specu- 
lators, and  he  is  attacked  in  all  directions 

I don’t  much  like  my  hall,  for  it  has  two  large 
balconies  far  removed  from  the  platform ; but  no 
one  ever  waylays  me  as  I go  into  it  or  come  out 
of  it,  and  it  is  kept  as  rigidly  quiet  as  the 


AND  DECEMBER,  1867.  387 

Franqais  at  a rehearsal.  We  have  not  yet  had 
in  it  less  than  PCi’  allowing  for  the 

depreciated  currency  ! I send  ^^^3000  to  Eng- 
land by  this  packet.  From  all  parts  of  the 
States,  applications  and  offers  continually  come 
in.  We  go  to  Boston  next  Saturday  for  two 
more  readings,  and  come  back  here  on  Christ- 
mas Day  for  four  more.  I am  not  yet  bound  to 
go  elsewhere,  except  three  times,  each  time  for 
two  nights,  to  Philadelphia;  thinking  it  wisest 
to  keep  free  for  the  largest  places.  I have  had 
an  action  brought  against  me  by  a man  who 
considered  himself  injured  (and  really  may  have 
been)  in  the  matter  of  his  tickets.  Personal 
service  being  necessary,  I was  politely  waited 
on  by  a marshal  for  that  purpose ; whom  I 
received  with  the  greatest  courtesy,  apparently 
very  much  to  his  amazement.  The  action  was 
handsomely  withdrawn  next  day,  and  the 

plaintiff  paid  his  own  costs Dolby  hopes 

you  are  satisfied  with  the  figures  so  far;  the 
profit  each  night  exceeding  the  estimated  profit 
by  ;£'i3o  odd.  He  is  anxious  I should  also 
tell  you  that  he  is  the  most  unpopular  and  best- 
abused  man  in  America.”  Next  day  a letter  to 
his  sister-in-law  related  an  incident  too  common 
in  American  cities  to  disconcert  any  but  stran- 
gers. He  had  lodged  himself,  I should  have 
said,  at  the  Westminster  Hotel  in  Irving  Place. 
“Last  night  I was  getting  into  bed  just  at  12 
o’clock,  when  Dolby  came  to  my  door  to  inform 
me  that  the  house  was  on  fire.  I got  Scott  up 
directly ; told  him  first  to  pack  the  books  and 
clothes  for  the  Readings  ; dressed,  and  pocketed 
my  jewels  and  papers  ; while  the  manager  stuffed 
himself  out  with  money.  Meanwhile  the  police 
and  firemen  were  in  the  house  tracing  the  mis- 
chief to  its  source  in  a certain  fire-grate.  By 
this  time  the  hose  was  laid  all  through  from  a 
great  tank  on  the  roof,  and  everybody  turned 
out  to  help.  It  was  the  oddest  sight,  and  people 
had  put  the  strangest  things  on  ! After  chopping 
and  cutting  with  axes  through  stairs,  and  much 
handing  about  of  water,  the  fire  was  confined  to 
a dining-room  in  which  it  had  originated ; and 
then  everybody  talked  to  everybody  else,  the 
ladies  being  particularly  loquacious  and  cheer- 
ful. I may  remark  that  the  secoird  landlord 
(from  both,  but  especially  the  first,  I have  had 
untiring  attention)  no  sooner  saw  me  on  this 
agitating  occasion,  than,  with  his  property  blaz- 
ing, he  insisted  on  taking  me  down  into  a room 
full  of  hot  smoke,  to  drink  brandy  and  water 
with  him ! And  so  we  got  to  bed  again  about 
two.” 

Dickens  had  been  a week  in  New  York  before 
he  was  able  to  identify  the  great  city  which  a 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


3SS 


lapse  of  twenty-five  years  had  so  prodigiously 
increased.  “ The  only  portion  that  has  even 
now  come  back  to  me,”  he  wrote,  “ is  the 
part  of  Broadway  in  which  the  Carlton  Hotel 
(long  since  destroyed)  used  to  stand.  There  is 
a very  fine  new  park  in  the  outskirts,  and  the 
number  of  grand  houses  and  splendid  equipages 
is  quite  surprising.  There  are  hotels  close  here 
with  500  bedrooms  and  I don’t  know  how  many 
boarders  ; but  this  hotel  is  quite  as  quiet  as,  and 
not  much  larger  than,  Mivart’s  in  Brook  Street. 
My  rooms  are  all  en  suite,  and  I come  and  go 
by  a private  door  and  private  staircase  com- 
municating with  my  bed-room.  The  waiters  are 
French,  and  one  might  be  living  in  Paris.  One 
of  the  two  proprietors  is  also  proprietor  of  Niblo’s 
Theatre,  and  the  greatest  care  is  taken  of  me. 
Niblo’s  great  attraction,  the  Black  Crook,  has 
now  been  played  every  night  for  16  months  (!). 
j and  is  the  most  preposterous  peg  to  hang  ballets 
on  that  was  ever  seen.  The  people  who  act  in 
: it  have  not  the  slightest  idea  of  what  it  is  about, 
and  never  had ; but  after  taxing  my  intellectual 
powers  to  the  utmost,  I fancy  that  I have  dis- 
covered Black  Crook  to  be  a malignant  hunch- 
back leagued  with  the  Powers  of  Darkness  to 
separate  two  lovers  ; and  that  the  Powers  of 
Lightness  coming  (in  no  skirts  whatever)  to  the 
rescue,  he  is  defeated.  I am  quite  serious  in  say- 
ing that  I do  not  suppose  there  are  two  pages  of 
All  the  Year  Round  in  the  whole  piece  (which 
acts  all  night) ; the  whole  of  the  rest  of  it  being 
ballets  of  all  sorts,  perfectly  unaccountable  pro- 
cessions, and  the  Donkey  out  of  last  year’s 
Covent  Garden  pantomime ! At  the  other 
theatres, comic  operas,  melodramas,  and  domestic 
dramas  prevail  all  over  the  city,  and  my  stories 
play  no  inconsiderable  part  in  them.  I go  no- 
where, having  laid  down  the  rule  that  to  com- 
bine visiting  with  my  work  would  be  absolutely 

impossible The  Fenian  explosion  at 

Clerkenwell  was  telegraphed  here  in  a few  hours. 
I do  not  think  there  is  any  sympathy  whatever 
with  the  Fenians  on  the  part  of  the  American 
people,  though  political  adventurers  may  make 
capital  out  of  a show  of  it.  But  no  doubt  large 
sections  of  the  Irish  population  of  this  State  are 
themselves  Fenian  ; and  the  local  politics  of  the 
place  are  in  a most  depraved  condition,  if  half 
of  what  is  said  to  me  be  true.  I prefer  not  to 
talk  of  these  things,  but  at  odd  intervals  I look 
round  for  myself.  Great  social  improvements 
in  respect  of  manners  and  forbearance  have  come 
to  pass  since  I was  here  before,  but  in  public 
life  I see  as  yet  but  little  change.” 

He  had  got  through  half  of  his  first  New  York 
readings  when  a winter  storm  came  on,  and 


from  this  time  until  very  near  his  return  the 
severity  of  the  weather  was  exceptional  even  for 
America.  When  the  first  snow  fell,  the  railways 
were  closed  for  some  days ; and  he  described 
New  York  crowded  with  sleighs,  and  the  snow 
piled  up  in  enormous  walls  the  whole  length  of 
the  streets.  “ I turned  out  in  a rather  gorgeous 
sleigh  yesterday  with  any  quantity  of  buffalo 
robes,  and  made  an  imposing  appearance.”  “ If 
you  were  to  behold  me  driving  out,”  he  wrote 
to  his  daughter,  “ furred  up  to  the  moustache, 
with  an  immense  white  red-and-yellow-striped 
rug  for  a covering,  you  would  suppose  me  to  be 
of  Hungarian  or  Polish  nationality.”  These  pro- 
tections nevertheless  availed  him  little  ; and 
when  the  time  came  for  getting  back  to  Boston, 
he  found  himself  at  the  close  of  his  journey  with 
a cold  and  cough  that  never  again  left  him  until 
he  had  quitted  the  country,  and  of  which  the 
effects  became  more  and  more  disastrous.  For 
the  present  there  was  little  allusion  to  this,  his 
belief  at  the  first  being  strong  that  he  should 
overmaster  it ; but  it  soon  forced  itself  into  all 
his  letters. 

His  railway  journey  otherwise  had  not  been 
agreeable.  “ The  railways  are  truly  alarming. 
Much  worse  (because  more  worn  I suppose) 
than  when  I w'as  here  before.  We  were  beaten 
about  yesterday,  as  if  we  had  been  aboard  the 
Guba.  Two  rivers  have  to  be  crossed,  and  each 
time  the  whole  train  is  banged  aboard  a big 
steamer.  The  steamer  rises  and  falls  with  the 
river,  which  the  railroad  don’t  do  ; and  the  train 
is  either  banged  up  hill  or  banged  down  hill.  In 
coming  off  the  steamer  at  one  of  these  crossings 
yesterday,  we  w'ere  banged  up  such  a height 
that  the  rope  broke,  ami  one  carriage  rushed 
back  with  a run  down-hill  into  the  boat  again. 
I whisked  out  in  a moment,  and  two  or  three 
others  after  me ; but  nobody  else  seemed  to  care 
about  it.  The  treatment  of  the  luggage  is  per- 
fectly outrageous.  Nearly  every  case  I have  is 
already  broken.  When  we  started  from  Boston 
yesterday,  I beheld,  to  my  unspeakable  amaze- 
ment, Scott,  my  dresser,  leaning  a flushed  counte- 
nance against  the  wall  of  the  car,  and  locepinu 
bitterly.  It  was  over  my  smashed  writing-desk. 
Yet  the  arrangements  for  luggage  are  excellent, 
if  the  porters  would  not  be  beyond  description 
reckless.”  The  same  excellence  of  ])rovision, 
and  flinging  away  of  its  advantages,  are  observetl 
in  connection  with  another  subject  in  the  same 
letter.  “ The  halls  are  c.xcellent.  Imagine  one 
holding  two  thousand  people,  seated  with  exact 
C(|uality  for  every  one  of  them,  and  every  one 
seated  separately.  I have  nowhere,  at  home  or 
abroad,  seen  so  fine  a police  as  the  police  of 


AMERICA:  NOVEMBER 


New  York ; and  tlieir  bearing  in  the  streets  is 
above  all  praise.  On  the  other  hand,  the  laws 
for  regulation  of  public  vehicles,  clearing  of 
streets,  and  removal  of  obstructions,  are  wildly 
outraged  by  the  people  for  whose  benefit  they 
are  intended.  Yet  there  is  undoubtedly  im- 
provement in  every  direction,  and  I am  taking 
time  to  make  up  my  mind  on  things  in  general. 
Let  me  add  that  I have  been  tempted  out  at 
three  in  the  morning  to  visit  one  of  the  large 
police  station-houses,  and  was  so  fascinated  by 
the  study  of  a horrible  photograph-book  of 
thieves’  portraits  that  I couldn’t  shut  it  up.” 

A letter  of  the  same  date  (22nd)  to  his  sister- 
in-law  told  of  personal  attentions  awaiting  him 
on  his  return  to  Boston  by  which  he  was  greatly 
touched.  He  found  his  rooms  garnished  with 
flowers  and  holly,  with  real  red  berries,  and  with 
festoons  of  moss  ; and  the  homely  Christmas 
look  of  the  place  quite  affected  him.  “ There  is 
a certain  Captain  Dolliver  belonging  to  the 
Boston  custom-house,  who  came  off  in  the  little 
steamer  that  brought  me  ashore  from  the  Cuba  ; 
and  he  took  it  into  his  head  that  he  would  have 
a piece  of  English  mistletoe  brought  out  in  this 
week’s  Cunard,  which  should  be  laid  upon  my 
breakfast  table.  And  there  it  was  this  morning. 
In  such  affectionate  touches  as  this,  these  New 

England  people  are  especially  amiable 

As  a general  rule  you  may  lay  it  down  that 
whatever  you  see  about  me  in  the  papers  is  not 
true  ; but  you  may  generally  lend  a more  be- 
lieving ear  to  the  Philadelphia  correspondent  of 
the  Times,  a well-informed  gentleman.  Our 
hotel  in  New  York  was  on  fire  again  the  other 
night.  But  fires  in  this  country  are  quite  matters 
of  course.  There  was  a large  one  in  Boston  at 
four  this  morning ; and  I don’t  think  a single 
night  has  passed,  since  I have  been  under  the 
protection  of  the  Eagle,  that  I have  not  heard 
the  Fire  Bells  dolefully  clanging  all  over  both 
cities.”  The  violent  abuse  of  his  manager  by 
portions  of  the  press  is  the  subject  of  the  rest  of 
the  letter,  and  receives  farther  illustration  in  one 
of  the  same  date  to  me.  “A  good  specimen  of  the 
sort  of  newspaper  you  and  I know  something  of, 
came  out  in  Boston  here  this  morning.  The  editor 
had  applied  for  our  advertisements,  saying  that 
‘ it  was  at  Mr.  D’s  disposal  for  paragraphs.’ 
The  advertisements  were  not  sent ; Dolby  did 
not  enrich  its  columns  paragraphically ; and 
among  its  news  to-day  is  the  item  that  “this 
chap  calling  himself  Dolby  got  drunk  down 
town  last  night,  and  was  taken  to  the  police 
station  for  fighting  an  Irishman  ! ’ I am  sorry 
to  say  that  I don’t  find  anybody  to  be  much 
shocked  by  this  liveliness.”  It  is  right  to  add 
Life  of  Charles  Dickens,  26. 


AND  DECEMBER,  1867.  389 


what  was  said  to  me  a few  days  later.  “ The 
Tribune  is  an  excellent  paper.  Horace  Greeley 
is  editor  in  chief,  and  a considerable  shareholder 
too.  All  the  people  connected  with  it  whom  I 
have  seen  are  of  the  best  class.  It  is  also  a 
very  fine  property — but  here  the  New  York 
Herald  beats  it  hollow,  hollow,  hollow  ! An- 
other able  and  well  edited  paper  is  the  New 
York  Times.  A most  respectable  journal  too  is 
Bryant’s  Evening  Post,  excellently  written.  There 
is  generally  a much  more  responsible  and  re- 
spectable tone  than  prevailed  formerly,  however 
small  may  be  the  literary  merit,  among  papers 
pointed  out  to  me  as  of  large  circulation.  In 
much  of  the  writing  there  is  certainly  improve- 
ment, but  it  might  be  more  widely  spread.” 

The  time  had  now  come  when  the  course  his 
Readings  were  to  take  independently  of  the  two 
leading  cities  must  be  settled,  and  the  general 
tour  made  out.  His  agent’s  original  plan  was 
that  they  should  be  in  New  York  every  week. 
“But  I say  No.  By  the  loth  of  January  I 
shall  have  read  to  35,000  people  in  that  city 
alone.  Put  the  readings  out  of  the  reach  of  all 
the  people  behind  them,  for  the  time.  It  is  that 
one  of  the  popular  peculiarities  which  I most 
particularly  notice,  that  they  must  not  have  a 
thing  too  easily.  Nothing  in  the  country  lasts 
long ; and  a thing  is  prized  the  more,  the  less 
easy  it  is  made.  Reflecting  therefore  that  I 
shall  want  to  close,  in  April,  with  farewell  read- 
ings here  and  in  New  York,  I am  convinced  that 
the  crush  and  pressure  upon  these  necessary 
to  their  adequate  success  is  only  to  be  got  by 
absence ; and  that  the  best  thing  I can  do  is 
not  to  give  either  city  as  much  reading  as  it 
wants  now,  but  to  be  independent  of  both  while 
both  are  most  enthusiastic.  I have  therefore 
resolved  presently  to  announce  in  New  York  so 
many  readings  (I  mean  a certain  number)  as  the 
last  that  can  be  given  there,  before  I travel  to 
promised  places ; and  that  we  select  the  best 
places,  with  the  largest  halls  on  our  list.  This 
will  include.  East  here — the  two  or  three  best 
New  England  towns;  South — Baltimore  and 
Washington  ; West — Cincinnati,  Pittsburgh,  Chi- 
cago, and  St.  Louis ; and  towards  Niagara — 
Cleveland  and  Bufialo.  Philadelphia  we  are 
already  pledged  to,  for  six  nights;  and  the 
scheme  will  pretty  easily  bring  us  here  again 
twice  before  the  farewells.  I feel  convinced 
that  this  is  the  sound  policy.”  (It  was  after- 
wards a little  modified,  as  will  be  seen,  by  public 
occurrences  and  his  own  condition  of  health ; 
the  West,  as  well  as  a promise  to  Canada,  having 
to  be  abandoned;  but  otherwise  it  was  carried 
out.)  “I  read  here  to-morrow  and  Tuesday; 

434 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


390 


all  tickets  being  sold  to  the  end  of  the  series, 
even  for  subjects  not  announced.  I have  not 
read  a single  time  at  a lower  clear  profit  per 
night  (all  deductions  made)  than  ;£^3i5.  But 
rely  upon  it  I shall  take  great  care  not  to  read 
oftener  than  four  times  a week — after  this  next 
week,  when  I stand  committed  to  five.  The 
inevitable  tendency  of  the  staff,  when  these  great 
houses  excite  them,  is,  in  the  words  of  an  old 
friend  of  ours,  to  ‘ hurge  the  hartist  hon  and  a 
night  or  two  ago  I had  to  cut  away  five  readings 
from  their  list.” 

An  incident  at  Boston  should  have  mention 
before  he  resumes  his  readings  in  New  York.  In 
the  interval  since  he  was  first  in  America,  the 
Harvard  professor  of  chemistry.  Dr.  Webster, 
whom  he  had  at  that  visit  met  among  the 
honoured  men  who  held  chairs  in  their  Cam- 
bridge University,  had  been  hanged  for  the  mur- 
der, committed  in  his  laboratory  in  the  college, 
of  a friend  who  had  lent  him  money,  portions  of 
whose  body  lay  concealed  under  the  lid  of  the 
lecture-room  table  where  the  murderer  continued 
to  meet  his  students.  “ Being  in  Cambridge,” 
Dickens  wrote  to  Lord  Lytton,  “ I thought  I 
would  go  over  the  Medical  School,  and  see  the 
exact  localities  where  Professor  Webster  did 
that  amazing  murder,  and  worked  so  hard  to 
rid  himself  of  the  body  of  the  murdered  man. 
(I  find  there  is  of  course  no  rational  doubt  that 
the  Professor  was  always  a secretly  cruel  man.) 
They  were  horribly  grim,  private,  cold,  and 
quiet ; the  identical  furnace  smelling  fearfully 
(some  anatomical  broth  in  it  I suppose)  as  if  the 
body  were  still  there  ; jars  of  pieces  of  sour  mor- 
tality standing  about,  like  the  forty  robbers  in 
All  Baba  after  being  scalded  to  death  ; and 
bodies  near  us  ready  to  be  carried  in  to  next 
I morning’s  lecture.  At  the  house  where  I after- 
wards dined  I heard  an  amazing  and  fearful 
story ; told  by  one  who  had  been  at  a dinner- 
party of  ten  or  a dozen,  at  Webster’s,  less  than 
a year  before  the  murder.  They  began  rather 
uncomfortably,  in  consequence  of  one  of  the 
guests  (the  victim  of  an  instinctive  antipathy) 
starting  up  with  the  sweat  pouring  down  his 
face,  and  crying  out,  ‘ O Heaven ! There’s  a 
cat  somewhere  in  the  room  !’  The  cat  was 
found  and  ejected,  but  they  didn’t  get  on  very 
well.  Left  with  their  wine,  they  were  getting 
on  a little  better ; when  Webster  suddenly  told 
the  servants  to  turn  the  gas  off  and  bring  in  that 
bowl  of  burning  minerals  which  he  had  prepared, 
in  order  that  the  company  might  see  how  ghastly 
they  looked  by  its  weird  light.  All  this  was  done, 
and  every  man  was  looking,  horror-stricken,  at 
his  neighbour;  when  Webster  was  seen  bending 


over  the  bowl  with  a rope  round  his  neck,  hold- 
ing up  the  end  of  the  rope,  with  his  head  on  one 
side  and  his  tongue  lolled  out,  to  represent  a 
hanged  man  ! ” 

Dickens  read  at  Boston  on  the  23rd  and  the 
24th  of  December,  and  on  Christmas  day  tra- 
velled back  to  New  York  where  he  was  to  read 
on  the  26th.  The  last  words  written  before  he 
left  were  of  illness.  “ The  low  action  of  the 
heart,  or  whatever  it  is,  has  inconvenienced  me 
greatly  this  last  week.  On  Monday  night,  after 
the  reading,  I was  laid  upon  a bed,  in  a very 
faint  and  shady  state;  and  on  the  Tuesday  I did 
not  get  up  till  the  afternoon.”  But  what  in 
reality  was  less  grave  took  outwardly  the  form 
of  a greater  distress ; and  the  effects  of  the  cold 
which  had  struck  him  in  travelling  to  Boston,  as 
yet  not  known  to  his  English  friends,  appear 
most  to  have  alarmed  those  about  him.  I de- 
part from  my  rule  in  this  narrative,  otherwise 
strictly  observed,  in  singling  out  one  of  those 
friends  for  mention  by  name  ; but  a business 
connection  with  the  Readings,  as  well  as  un- 
tiring offices  of  personal  kindness  and  sym- 
pathy, threw  Mr.  Fields  into  closer  relations  with 
Dickens  from  arrival  to  departure,  than  any  other 
2:>erson  had ; and  his  description  of  the  condition 
of  health  in  which  Dickens  now  quitted  Boston 
and  went  through  the  rest  of  the  labour  he  had 
undertaken  will  be  a sad  though  fit  prelude  to 
what  the  following  chapter  has  to  tell.  “ Ide 
went  from  Boston  to  New  York  carrying  with 
him  a severe  catarrh  contracted  in  our  climate. 
He  was  quite  ill  from  the  effects  of  the  disease ; 

but  he  fought  courageously  against  them 

His  sjririt  was  wonderful,  and,  although  he  lost 
all  aiDpetite  and  could  jrartake  of  very  little  food, 
he  was  always  cheerful  and  ready  for  his  work 
when  the  evening  came  round.  A dinner  was 
tendered  to  him  by  some  of  his  literary  friends 
in  Boston ; but  he  was  so  ill  the  day  before  that 
the  banquet  had  to  be  given  up.  'I'lie  strain 
upon  his  strength  and  nerves  was  very  great 
during  all  the  months  he  remained,  and  only  a 
man  of  iron  will  coidd  have  accomjrlished  what 
he  did.  He  was  accustomed  to  talk  and  write 
a good  deal  about  eating  and  drinking,  but  I 
have  rarely  seen  a man  cat  and  drink  less.  Ho 
liked  to  dilate  in  imagination  over  the  brewing 
of  a bowl  of  jrunch,  but  when  the  jumch  was 
ready  he  drank  less  of  it  than  any  one  who 
might  be  j)resent.  It  was  the  sentiment  of  the 
thing  and  not  tire  thing  itself  that  engaged  his 
attention.  1 scarcely  saw  him  cat  a hearty  meal 
during  his  whole  stay.  Both  at  Barker’s  hotel 
in  Boston,  and  at  the  Westminster  in  New  \ork, 
everything  was  arranged  by  the  proirrietors  for 


AMERICA:  JANUARY  TO  APRIL,  1868. 


391 


his  comfort,  and  tempting  dishes  to  pique  his 
invalid  appetite  were  sent  up  at  difterent  hours 
of  the  day ; but  the  influenza  had  seized  him 
with  masterful  power,  and  held  the  strong  man 
down  till  he  left  the  country.” 

When  he  arrived  at  New  York  on  the  evening 
of  Christmas  Day  he  found  a letter  from  his 
daughter.  Answering  her  next  day  he  told  her  : 
“ I wanted  it  much,  for  I had  a frightful  cold 
(English  colds  are  nothing  to  those  of  this  coun- 
try) and  was  very  miserable It  is  a bad 

country  to  be  unwell  and  travelling  in.  You  are 
one  of,  say  a hundred  people  in  a heated  car 
with  a great  stove  in  it,  all  the  little  windows 
being  closed  ; and  the  bumping  and  banging 
about  are  indescribable,  the  atmosphere  detest- 
able, the  ordinary  motion  all  but  intolerable.” 
The  following  day  this  addition  was  made  to  the 
letter.  “ I managed  to  read  last  night,  but  it 
was  as  much  as  I could  do.  To-day  I am  so 
very  unwell  that  I have  sent  for  a doctor.  He 
has  just  been,  and  is  in  doubt  whether  I shall 
not  have  to  stop  reading  for  a while.” 

His  stronger  will  prevailed,  and  he  went  on 
without  stopping.  On  the  last  day  of  the  year 
he  announced  to  us  that  though  he  had  been 
very  low  he  was  getting  right  again ; that  in  a. 
couple  of  days  he  should  have  accomplished  a 
fourth  of  the  entire  Readings  ; and  that  the  first 
month  of  the  new  year  would  see  him  through 
Philadelphia  and  Baltimore,  as  well  as  through 
two  more  nights  in  Boston.  He  also  prepared 
his  English  friends  for  the  startling  intelligence 
they  might  shortly  expect,  of  four  readings  com- 
ing off  in  a church,  before  an  audience  of  two 
thousand  people  accommodated  in  pews,  and 
with  himself  emerging  from  a vestry. 


II. 


JANUARY  TO  APRIL. 

1868. 

HE  Reading  on  the  third  of  January 
closed  a fourth  of  the  entire  series, 
^ and  on  that  day  Dickens  wrote  of 
the  trouble  brought  on  them  by  the 
“ speculators,”  which  to  some  extent 
had  affected  unfavourably  the  three  pre- 
vious nights  in  New  York.  When  adven- 
turers bought  up  the  best  places,  the 
public  resented  it  by  refusing  the  worst;  to 
prevent  it  by  first  helping  themselves,  being  the 
last  thing  they  ever  thought  of  doing.  “ We 


try  to  withhold  the  best  seats  from  the  specu- 
lators, but  the  unaccountable  thing  is  that  the 
great  mass  of  the  public  buy  of  them  (prefer  it), 
and  the  rest  of  the  public  are  injured  if  we  have 
not  got  those  very  seats  to  sell  them.  We  have 
now  a travelling  staff  of  six  men,  in  spite  of 
which  Dolby,  who  is  leaving  me  to-day  to  sell 
tickets  in  Philadelphia  to-morrow  morning,  will 
no  doubt  get  into  a tempest  of  difficulties.  Of 
course  also,  in  such  a matter,  as  many  obstacles 
as  possible  are  thrown  in  an  Englishman’s  way ; 
and  he  may  himself  be  a little  injudicious  into 
the  bargain.  Last  night,  for  instance,  he  met 
one  of  the  ‘ ushers  ’ (who  show  people  to  their 
seats)  coming  in  with  one  of  cur  men.  It  is 
against  orders  that  any  one  employed  in  front 
should  go  out  during  the  reading,  and  he  took 
this  man  to  task  in  the  British  manner.  In- 
stantly the  free  and  independent  usher  put  on 
his  hat  and  walked  off.  Seeing  which  all  the 
other  free  and  independent  ushers  (some  20  in 
number)  put  on  their  hats  and  walked  off ; leav- 
ing us  absolutely  devoid  and  destitute  of  a staff 
for  to-night.  One  has  since  been  improvised  : 
but  it  was  a small  matter  to  raise  a stir  and  ill- 
will  about,  especially  as  one  of  our  men  was 
equally  in  fault ; and  really  there  is  little  to  be 
done  at  night.  American  people  are  so  accus- 
tomed to  take  care  of  themselves,  that  one  of 
these  immense  audiences  will  fall  into  their 
places  with  an  ease  amazing  to  a frequenter  of 
St.  James’s  Hall ; and  the  certainty  with  which 
they  are  all  in,  before  I go  on,  is  a very  accept- 
able mark  of  respect.  Our  great  labour  is  out- 
side ; and  we  have  been  obliged  to  bring  our 
staff  up  to  six,  besides  a boy  or  two,  by  employ- 
ment of  a regular  additional  clerk,  a Bostonian. 
The  speculators  buying  the  front-seats  (we  have 
found  instances  of  this  being  done  by  merchants 
in  good  position)  the  public  won’t  have  the  back 
seats ; return  their  tickets,  write  and  print 
volumes  on  the  subject ; and  deter  others  from 
coming.  You  are  not  to  suppose  that  this  pre- 
vails to  any  great  extent,  as  our  lowest  house 
here  has  been  ; but  it  does  hit  us.  There 

is  no  doubt  about  it.  Fortunately  I saw  the 
danger  when  the  trouble  began,  and  changed 

the  list  at  the  right  time You  may  get 

an  idea  of  the  staff’s  work,  by  what  is  in  hand 
now.  They  are  preparing,  numbering,  and 
stamping  6000  tickets  for  Philadelphia,  and 
8000  tickets  for  Brooklyn.  The  moment  those 
are  done,  another  8000  tickets  will  be  wanted 
for  Baltimore,  and  probably  another  6000  for 
Washington;  and  all  this  in  addition  to  the 
correspondence,  advertisements,  accounts,  tra- 
velling, and  the  nightly  business  of  the  Readings 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


392 


four  times  a week I cannot  get  rid  of 

this  intolerable  cold ! My  landlord  invented 
for  me  a drink  of  brandy,  rum,  and  snow,  called 
it  a ‘ Rocky  Mountain  Sneezer,’  and  said  it  was 
to  put  down  all  less  effectual  sneezing ; but  it 
has  not  yet  had  the  effect.  Did  I tell  you  that 
the  favourite  drink  before  you  get  up  is  an  Eye- 
Opener  ? There  has  been  another  fall  of  snow, 
succeeded  by  a heavy  thaw.” 

The  day  after  (the  4th)  he  went  back  to 
Boston,  and  next  day  wrote  to  me  : “ I am  to 
read  here  on  Monday  and  Tuesday,  return  to 
New  York  on  Wednesday,  and  finish  there  (ex- 
cept the  farewells  in  April)  on  Thursday  and 
Friday.  The  New  York  reading  of  Dr.  Mari- 
gold made  really  a tremendous  hit.  The  people 
doubted  at  first,  having  evidently  not  the  least 
idea  of  what  could  be  done  with  it,  and  broke 
out  at  last  into  a perfect  chorus  of  delight.  At 
the  end  they  made  a great  shout,  and  gave  a 
rush  towards  the  platform  as  if  they  were  going 
to  carry  me  off.  It  puts  a strong  additional 
arrow  into  my  quiver.  Another  extraordinary 
success  has  been  Nickleby  and  Boots  at  the 
Holly  Tree  (appreciated  here  in  Boston,  by  the 
bye,  even  more  than  Copperfield) ; and  think  of 
our  last  New  York  night  bringing  ^500  English 
into  the  house,  after  making  more  than  the 
necessary  deduction  for  the  present  price  of 
gold  ! The  manager  is  always  going  about  with 
an  immense  bundle  that  looks  like  a sofa- 
cushion,  but  is  in  reality  paper-money,  and  it 
had  risen  to  the  proportions  of  a sofa  on  the 
morning  he  left  for  Philadelphia.  Well,  the 
work  is  hard,  the  climate  is  hard,  the  life  is 
hard : but  so  far  the  gain  is  enormous.  My 
cold  steadily  refuses  to  stir  an  inch.  It  dis- 
tresses me  greatly  at  times,  though  it  is  always 
good  enough  to  leave  me  for  the  needful  two 
hours.  I have  tried  allopathy,  homoeopathy, 
cold  things,  warm  things,  sweet  things,  bitter 
things,  stimulants,  narcotics,  all  with  the  same 
result.  Nothing  will  touch  it.” 

In  the  same  letter,  light  was  thrown  on  the 
ecclesiastical  mystery.  “ At  Brooklyn  I am 
going  to  read  in  Mr.  Ward  Beecher’s  chapel  : 
the  only  building  there  available  for  the  pur- 
pose. You  must  understand  that  Brooklyn  is  a 
kind  of  sleeping-place  for  New  York,  and  is 
supposed  to  be  a great  place  in  the  money  way. 
We  let  the  seats  pew  by  pew!  the  pulpit  is 
taken  down  for  my  screen  and  gas  1 and  I ap- 
pear out  of  the  vestry  in  canonical  form  I These 
ecclesiastical  entertainments  come  off  on  the 
evenings  of  the  i6th,  17th,  20th,  and  21st  of 
the  present  month.”  His  first  letter  after  return- 
ing to  New  York  (9th  of  January)  made  addi- 


tions to  the  Brooklyn  picture.  “ Each  evening 
an  enormous  ferry-boat  will  convey  me  and  my 
state-carriage  (not  to  mention  half  a dozen 
wagons  and  any  number  of  people  and  a few 
score  of  horses)  across  the  river  to  Brooklyn, 
and  will  bring  me  back  again.  The  sale  of 
tickets  there  was  an  amazing  scene.  The  noble 
army  of  speculators  are  now  furnished  (this  is 
literally  true,  and  I am  quite  serious)  each  man 
with  a straw  mattress,  a little  bag  of  bread  and 
meat,  two  blankets,  and  a bottle  of  whiskey. 
With  this  outfit,  they  lie  down  in  line  07i  the  pave- 
?nent  the  whole  of  the  night  before  the  tickets 
are  sold  : generally  taking  up  their  position  at 
about  10.  It  being  severely  cold  at  Brooklyn, 
they  made  an  immense  bonfire  in  the  street — 
a narrow  street  of  wooden  houses — which  the 
police  turned  out  to  extinguish.  A general  fight 
then  took  place  ; from  which  the  people  farthest 
off  in  the  line  rushed  bleeding  when  they  saw 
any  chance  of  ousting  others  nearer  the  door, 
put  their  mattresses  in  the  spots  so  gained,  and 
held  on  by  the  iron  rails.  At  8 in  the  morning 
Dolby  appeared  with  the  tickets  in  a portman- 
teau. He  was  immediately  saluted  with  a roar 
of  Halloa  ! Dolby  1 So  Charley  has  let  you 
have  the  carriage,  has  he,  Dolby  ? How  is  he, 
Dolby  ? Don’t  drop  the  tickets,  Dolby  1 Look 
alive,  Dolby  ! &c.  &c.  &c.  in  the  midst  of  which 
he  proceeded  to  business,  and  concluded  (as 
usual)  by  giving  universal  dissatisfaction.  He 
is  now  going  off  upon  a little  journey  to  look 
over  the  ground  and  cut  back  again.  This  little 
journey  (to  Chicago)  is  twelve  hundred  miles  on 
end,  by  railway,  besides  the  back  again  1 ” It 
might  tax  the  Englishman,  but  was  nothing  to 
the  native  American.  It  was  part  of  his  New 
York  landlord’s  ordinary  life  in  a week,  Dickens 
told  me,  to  go  to  Chicago,  and  look  at  his  theatre 
there  on  a Monday  ; to  pelt  back  to  Boston  and 
look  at  his  theatre  there  on  a Thursday ; and  to 
come  rushing  to  New  York  on  a Friday,  to 
apostrophize  his  enormous  ballet. 

Three  days  later,  still  at  New  York,  he  wrote 
to  his  sister-in-law.  “ I am  off  to  Philadelphia 
this  evening  for  the  first  of  three  visits  of  two 
nights  each,  tickets  for  all  being  sold.  My  cold 
steadily  refuses  to  leave  me,  but  otherwise  I am 
as  well  as  I can  hope  to  be  under  this  heavy 
work.  My  New  York  readings  are  over  (except 
the  farewell  nights),  and  I look  forward  to  the 
relief  of  being  out  of  my  hardest  hall.  On 
Friday  I was  again  dead  beat  at  the  end,  and 
was  once  more  laid  upon  a sofa.  But  the  firint- 
ness  went  off  after  a little  while.  We  have  now 
cold  bright  frosty  weather,  without  snow  ; the 
best  weather  for  me.”  Next  day  from  Phila- 


AMERICA:  JANUARY  TO  APRIL,  1868. 


delphia  he  wrote  to  his  daughter  that  he  was 
lodged  in  The  Continental,  one  of  the  most  im- 
mense of  American  hotels,  but  that  he  found 
himself  just  as  quiet  as  elsewhere.  “Everything 
is  very  good,  my  waiter  is  German,  and  the 
greater  part  of  the  servants  seem  to  be  coloured 
people.  The  town  is  very  clean,  and  the  day 
as  blue  and  bright  as  a fine  Italian  day.  But  it 
freezes  very  very  hard,  and  my  cold  is  not  im- 
proved ; for  the  cars  were  so  intolerably  hot 
that  I was  often  obliged  to  stand  upon  the  brake 
outside,  and  then  the  frosty  air  bit  me  indeed. 
I find  it  necessary  (so  oppressed  am  I with  this 
American  catarrh  as  they  call  it)  to  dine  at 
three  o’clock  instead  of  four,  that  I may  have 
more  time  to  get  voice ; so  that  the  days  are 
cut  short  and  letter-writing  not  easy.” 

He  nevertheless  found  time  in  this  city  to 
write  to  me  (14th  of  January)  the  most  interest- 
ing mention  he  had  yet  made  of  such  opinions 
as  he  had  been  able  to  form  during  his  present 
visit,  apart  from  the  pursuit  that  absorbed  him. 
Of  such  of  those  opinions  as  were  given  on  a 
former  page,  it  is  only  necessary  to  repeat  that 
while  the  tone  of  party  politics  still  impressed 
him  unfavourably,  he  had  thus  far  seen  every- 
where great  changes  for  the  better  socially.  I 
will  add  other  points  from  the  same  letter. 
That  he  was  unfortunate  in  his  time  of  visiting 
New  York,  as  far  as  its  politics  were  concerned, 
what  has  since  happened  conclusively  shows. 
“ The  Irish  element  is  acquiring  such  enormous 
influence  in  New  York  city,  that  when  I think 
of  it,  and  see  the  large  Roman  Catholic  cathe- 
dral rising  there,  it  seems  unfair  to  stigmatise  as 
‘ American  ’ other  monstrous  things  that  one 
also  sees.  But  the  general  corruption  in  re- 
spect of  the  local  funds  appears  to  be  stupen- 
dous, and  there  is  an  alarming  thing  as  to  some 
of  the  courts  of  law  which  I am  afraid  is  native- 
born.  A case  came  under  my  notice  the  other 
day  in  which  it  was  perfectly  plain,  from  what 
was  said  to  me  by  a person  interested  in  resist- 
ing an  injunction,  that  his  first  proceeding  had 
been  to  ‘look  up  the  Judge.’”  Of  such  occa- 
sional provincial  oddity,  harmless  in  itself  but 
strange  in  large  cities,  as  he  noticed  in  the  sort 
of  half  disappointment  at  the  small  fuss  made  by 
himself  about  the  Readings,  and  in  the  news- 
paper references  to  “ Mr.  Dickens’s  extraordi- 
nary composure  ” on  the  platform,  he  gives  an 
illustration.  “ Last  night  here  in  Philadelphia 
(my  first  night),  a very  impressible  and  respon- 
sive audience  were  so  astounded  by  my  simply 
walking  in  and  opening  my  book  that  I won- 
dered what  was  the  matter.  They  evidently 
thought  that  there  ought  to  have  been  a flourish. 


393 


and  Dolby  sent  in  to  prepare  for  me.  With 
them  it  is  the  simplicity  of  the  operation  that 
raises  wonder.  With  the  newspapers  ‘ Mr. 
Dickens’s  extraordinary  composure  ’ is  not  rea- 
soned out  as  being  necessary  to  the  art  of  the 
thing,  but  is  sensitively  watched  with  a lurking 
doubt  whether  it  may  not  imply  disparagement 
of  the  audience.  Both  these  things  strike  me 
as  drolly  expressive.”  .... 

His  testimony  as  to  improved  social  habits 
and  ways  was  expressed  very  decidedly.  “ I 
think  it  reasonable  to  expect  that  as  I go  west- 
ward, I shall  find  the  old  manners  going  on 
before  me,  and  may  tread  upon  their  skirts  may- 
hap. But  so  far,  I have  had  no  more  intrusion 
or  boredom  than  I have  when  I lead  the  same 
life  in  England.  I write  this  in  an  immense 
hotel,  but  I am  as  much  at  peace  in  my  own 
rooms,  and  am  left  as  wholly  undisturbed,  as  if 
I were  at  the  Station  Hotel  in  York.  I have 
now  read  in  New  York  city  to  40,000  people, 
and  am  quite  as  well  known  in  the  streets  there 
as  I am  in  London.  People  will  turn  back, 
turn  again  and  face  me,  and  have  a look  at  me, 
or  will  say  to  one  another,  ‘ Look  here  ! Dickens 
coming ! ’ But  no  one  ever  stops  me  or  ad- 
dresses me.  Sitting  reading  in  the  carriage 
outside  the  New  York  post-office  while  one  of 
the  staff  was  stamping  the  letters  inside,  I be- 
came conscious  that  a few  people  who  had  been 
looking  at  the  turn-out  had  discovered  me 
within.  On  my  peeping  out  good-humouredly, 
one  of  them  (I  should  say  a merchant’s  book- 
keeper) stepped  up  to  the  door,  took  off  his  hat, 
and  said  in  a frank  way : ‘ Mr.  Dickens,  I 
should  very  much  like  to  have  the  honour  of 
shaking  hands  with  you  ’ — and,  that  done,  pre- 
sented two  others.  Nothing  could  be  more 
quiet  or  less  intrusive.  In  the  railway  cars,  if  I 
see  anybody  who  clearly  wants  to  speak  to  me, 
I usually  anticipate  the  M'ish  by  speaking  my- 
self. If  I am  standing  on  the  brake  outside 
(to  avoid  the  intolerable  stove),  people  getting 
down  will  say  with  a smile : ‘ As  I am  faking 
my  departure,  Mr.  Dickens,  and  can’t  trouble 
you  for  more  than  a moment,  I should  like  to 
take  you  by  the  hand,  sir.’  And  so  we  shake 

hands  and  go  our  ways Of  course  many 

of  my  impressions  come  through  the  readings. 
Thus  I find  the  people  lighter  and  more  humo- 
rous than  formerly ; and  there  must  be  a great 
deal  of  innocent  imagination  among  every  class, 
or  they  never  could  pet  with  such  extraordinary 
pleasure  as  they  do,  the  Boots’s  story  of  the 
elopement  of  the  two  little  children.  They 
seem  to  see  the  children ; and  the  women  set 
up  a shrill  undercurrent  of  half-pity  and  half- 


THE  LIFE  OF  CLIARLES  DICKENS. 


394 


pleasure  that  is  quite  affecting.  To-night’s 
reading  is  my  26th;  but  as  all  the  Philadelphia 
tickets  for  four  more  are  sold,  as  well  as  four  at 
Brooklyn,  you  must  assume  that  I am  at — say 
— my  35th  reading.  I have  remitted  to  Coutts’s 
in  English  gold  £,\q,qoo  odd  ; and  I roughly 
calculate  that  on  this  number  Dolby  will  have 
another  thousand  pounds  profit  to  pay  me. 
These  figures  are  of  course  between  ourselves, 
at  present ; but  are  they  not  magnificent  ? The 
expenses,  always  recollect,  are  enormous.  On 
the  other  hand  we  never  have  occasion  to  print 
a bill  of  any  sort  (bill-printing  and  posting  are 
great  charges  at  home) ; and  have  just  now  sold 
off  ;^9o  worth  of  bill-paper,  provided  before- 
hand, as  a wholly  useless  incumbrance.” 

Then  came,  as  ever,  the  constant  shadow  that 
still  attended  him,  the  slave  in  the  chariot  of  his 
triumph.  “ The  work  is  very  severe.  There  is 
now  no  chance  of  my  being  rid  of  this  Ame- 
rican catarrh  until  I embark  for  England.  It  is 
very  distressing.  It  likewise  happens,  not  sel- 
dom, that  I am  so  dead  beat  when  I come  off 
that  they  lay  me  down  on  a sofa  after  I have 
been  washed  and  dressed,  and  I lie  there,  ex- 
tremely faint,  for  a quarter  of  an  hour.  In  that 
time  I rally  and  come  right.”  One  week  later 
from  New  York,  where  he  had  become  due  on 
the  1 6th  for  the  first  of  his  four  Brooklyn  read- 
ings, he  wrote  to  his  sister-in-law.  “ My  cold 
sticks  to  me,  and  I can  scarcely  exaggerate 
what  I undergo  from  sleeplessness.  I rarely 
take  any  breakfast  but  an  egg  and  a cup  of  tea 
— not  even  toast  or  bread  and  butter.  My 
small  dinner  at  3,  and  a little  quail  or  some 
such  light  thing  when  I come  home  at  night,  is 
my  daily  fare  ; and  at  the  hall  I have  established 
the  custom  of  taking  an  egg  beaten  up  in  sherry 
before  going  in,  and  another  between  the  parts, 

which  I think  pulls  me  up It  is  snowing 

hard  now,  and  I begin  to  move  to-morrow. 
There  is  so  much  floating  ice  in  the  river,  that 
we  are  obliged  to  have  a pretty  wide  margin  of 
time  for  getting  over  the  ferry  to  read.”  The 
last  of  the  readings  over  the  ferry  was  on  the 
day  when  this  letter  was  written.  “ I finished 
at  my  church  to-night.  It  is  Mrs.  Stowe’s 
brother’s,  and  a most  wonderful  place  to  speak 
in.  We  had  it  enormously  full  last  night  {Mari- 
gold and  Trial),  but  it  scarcely  required  an 
effort.  Mr.  Ward  Beecher  being  present  in  his 
pew,  I sent  to  invite  him  to  come  round  before 
he  left.  I found  him  to  be  an  unostentatious, 
evidently  able,  straightforward,  and  agreeable 
man  ; extremely  well-informed,  and  with  a good 
knowledge  of  art.” 

Baltimore  and  Washington  were  the  cities  in 


which  he  was  now,  on  quitting  New  York,  to 
read  for  the  first  time  ; and  as  to  the  latter  some 
doubts  arose.  The  exceptional  course  had  been 
taken  in  regard  to  it,  of  selecting  a hall  with 
space  for  not  more  than  700  and  charging  every- 
body five  dollars ; to  which  Dickens,  at  first 
greatly  opposed,  had  yielded  upon  use  of  the 
argument,  “ you  have  more  people  at  New 
York,  thanks  to  the  speculators,  paying  more 
than  five  dollars  every  night.”  But  now  other 
suggestions  came.  “ Horace  Greeley  dined 
with  me  last  Saturday,”  he  wrote  on  the  20th, 
“and  didn’t  like  my  going  to  Washington,  now 
full  of  the  greatest  rowdies  and  worst  kind  of 
people  in  the  States.  Last  night  at  eleven  came 
B.  expressing  like  doubts ; and  though  they  may 
be  absurd  I thought  them  worth  attention,  B. 
coming  so  close  on  Greeley.”  Mr.  Dolby  was 
in  consequence  sent  express  to  Washington  with 
power  to  withdraw  or  go  on,  as  enquiry  on  the 
spot  might  dictate ; and  Dickens  took  the  addi- 
tional resolve  so  far  to  modify  the  last  arrange- 
ments of  his  tour  as  to  avoid  the  distances  of 
Ghicago,  St.  Louis,  and  Cincinnati,  to  content 
himself  with  smaller  places  and  profits,  and 
thereby  to  get  home  nearly  a month  earlier. 
He  was  at  Philadelphia  on  the  23rd  of  January, 
when  he  announced  this  intention.  “ The  worst  j 
of  it  is,  that  everybody  one  advises  with  has  a ^ 
monomania  respecting  Chicago.  ‘ Good  hea- 
vens, sir,’  the  great  Philadelphia  authority  said 
to  me  this  morning,  ■'  if  you  don’t  read  in 
Chicago  the  people  will  go  into  fits  ! ’ Well, 

I answered,  I would  rather  they  went  into  fits 
than  I did.  But  he  didn’t  seem  to  see  it  at  all.” 
From  Baltimore  he  wrote  to  his  sister-in-law 
on  the  29th,  in  the  hour’s  interval  he  had  to 
spare  before  going  back  to  Philadelphia.  “It  ; 
has  been  snowing  hard  for  four  and  twenty  j 
hours — though  this  place  is  as  far  south  as 
Valentia  in  Spain,  and  my  manager,  being  on 
his  way  to  New  York,  has  a good  chance  of 
being  snowed  up  somewhere.  This  is  one  of 
the  places  where  Butler  carried  it  with  a high 
hand  during  the  war,  and  where  the  ladies  used 
to  spit  when  they  passed  a Northern  soldier.  , 
They  are  very  handsome  women,  with  an 
Eastern  touch  in  them,  and  dress  brilliantly. 

I have  rarely  seen  so  many  fine  faces  in  an 
audience.  They  are  a bright  responsive  peoi)le 
likewise,  and  very  pleasant  to  read  to.  l\Iy 
hall  is  a charming  little  opera  house  built  by  a 
society  of  Germans  : (piitc  a delightful  place  for 
the  purpose.  I stand  on  the  stage,  with  the 
drop  curtain  down,  and  my  screen  before  it. 
The  whole  scene  is  very  pretty  and  complete, 
and  the  audience  have  a ‘ring’  in  them  that 


AMERICA:  JANUARY  TO  APRIL,  1868. 


sounds  deeper  than  the  ear.  I go  from  here 
to  Philadelphia,  to  read  to-morrow  night  and 
Friday;  come  through  here  again  on  Saturday 
on  my  way  back  to  Washington ; come  back 
here  on  Saturday  week  for  two  finishing  nights; 
then  go  to  Philadelphia  for  two  farewells — and 
so  turn  my  back  on  the  southern  part  of  the 
country.  Our  new  plan  will  give  82  readings 
in  all.”  (The  real  number  was  76,  six  having 
been  dropped  on  subsequent  political  excite- 
ments.) “ Of  course  I afterwards  discovered 
that  we  had  finally  settled  the  list  on  a Friday. 
I shall  be  halfway  through  it  at  Washington ; of 
course  on  a Friday  also,  and  my  birthday.”  To 
myself  he  wrote  on  the  following  day  from  Phila- 
delphia, beginning  with  a thank  Heaven  that 
he  had  struck  off  Canada  and  the  West,  for  he 
found  the  wear  and  tear  “ enormous.”  “ Dolby 
decided  that  the  croakers  were  wrong  about 
Washington,  and  went  on  : the  rather  as  his 
raised  prices,  which  he  put  finally  at  three 
dollars  each,  gave  satisfaction.  Fields  is  so 
confident  about  Boston,  that  my  remaining  list 
includes,  in  all,  14  more  readings  there.  I don’t 
know  how  many  more  we  might  not  have  had 
here  (where  I have  had  attentions  otherwise  that 
have  been  very  grateful  to  me),  if  we  had  chosen. 
Tickets  are  now  being  resold  at  ten  dollars  each. 
At  Baltimore  I had  a charming  little  theatre, 
and  a very  apprehensive  impulsive  audience. 
It  is  remarkable  to  see  how  the  Ghost  of  Slavery 
haunts  the  town ; and  how  the  shambling,  un- 
tidy, evasive,  and  postponing  Irrepressible  pro- 
ceeds about  his  free  work,  going  round  and 
round  it,  instead  of  at  it.  The  melancholy  ab- 
surdity of  giving  these  people  votes,  at  any  rate 
at  present,  would  glare  at  one  out  of  every  roll 
of  their  eyes,  chuckle  in  their  mouths,  and  bump 
in  their  heads,  if  one  did  not  see  (as  one  cannot 
help  seeing  in  the  country)  that  their  enfran- 
chisement is  a mere  party  trick  to  get  votes. 
Being  at  the  Penitentiary  the  other  day  (this, 
while  we  mention  votes),  and  looking  over  the 
books,  I noticed  that  almost  every  man  had 
been  ‘ pardoned  ’ a day  or  two  before  his  time 
was  up.  Why?  Because  if  he  had  served  his 
time  out,  he  would  have  been  ipso  facto  disfran- 
chised. So,  this  form  of  pardon  is  gone  through 
to  save  his  vote ; and  as  every  officer  of  the 
prison  holds  his  place  only  in  right  of  his  party, 
of  course  his  hopeful  clients  vote  for  the  party 
that  has  let  them  out ! When  I read  in  Mr. 
Beecher’s  church  at  Brooklyn,  we  found  the 
trustees  had  suppressed  the  fact  that  a certain 
upper  gallery  holding  150  was  ‘the  Coloured 
Gallery.’  On  the  first  night  not  a soul  could 
be  induced  to  enter  it ; and  it  was  not  until  it 


395 


became  known  next  day  that  I was  certainly 
not  going  to  read  there  more  than  four  times, 
that  we  managed  to  fill  it.  One  night  at  New 
York,  on  our  second  or  third  row,  there  were 
two  well-dressed  women  with  a tinge  of  colour 
— I should  say,  not  even  quadroons.  But  the 
holder  of  one  ticket  who  found  his  seat  to  be 
next  them,  demanded  of  Dolby  ‘ What  he 
meant  by  fixing  him  next  to  those  two  Gord 
darmed  cusses  of  niggers  ? ’ and  insisted  on 
being  supplied  with  another  good  place.  Dolby 
firmly  replied  that  he  was  perfectly  certain  Mr. 
Dickens  would  not  recognise  such  an  objection 
on  any  account,  but  he  could  have  his  money 
back  if  he  chose.  Which,  after  some  squab- 
bling, he  had.  In  a comic  scene  in  the  New 
York  Circus  one  night,  when  I was  looking  on, 
four  white  people  sat  down  upon  a form  in  a 
barber’s  shop  to  be  shaved.  A coloured  man 
came  as  the  fifth  customer,  and  the  four  imme- 
diately ran  away.  This  was  much  laughed  at 
and  applauded.  In  the  Baltimore  Penitentiary, 
the  white  prisoners  dine  on  one  side  of  the 
room,  the  coloured  prisoners  on  the  other ; and 
no  one  has  the  slightest  idea  of  mixing  them. 
But  it  is  indubitably  the  fact  that  exhalations 
not  the  most  agreeable  arise  from  a number  of 
coloured  people  got  together,  and  I was  obliged 
to  beat  a quick  retreat  from  their  dormitory.  I 
strongly  believe  that  they  will  die  out  of  this 
country  fast.  It  seems,  looking  at  them,  so 
manifestly  absurd  to  suppose  it  possible  that 
they  can  ever  hold  their  own  against  a restless, 
shifty,  striving,  stronger  race.” 

On  the  fourth  of  February  he  wrote  from 
Washington.  “You  may  like  to  have  a line  to 
let  you  know  that  it  is  all  right  here,  and  that 
the  croakers  were  simply  ridiculous.  I began 
last  night.  A charming  audience,  no  dissatis- 
faction whatever  at  the  raised  prices,  nothing 
missed  or  lost,  cheers  at  the  end  of  the  Carol, 
and  rounds  upon  rounds  of  applause  all  through. 
All  the  foremost  men  and  their  families  had 
taken  tickets  for  the  series  of  four.  A small 
place  to  read  in.  in  it.”  It  will  be  no 

violation  of  the  rule  of  avoiding  private  detail  if 
the  very  interesting  close  of  this  letter  is  given. 
Its  anecdote  of  President  Lincoln  was  repeat- 
edly told  by  Dickens  after  his  return,  and  I am 
under  no  necessity  to  withhold  from  it  the 
authority  of  Mr.  Sumner’s  name.  “ I am  going 
to-morrow  to  see  the  President,  who  has  sent  to 
me  twice.  I dined  with  Charles  Sumner  last 
Sunday,  against  my  rule ; and  as  I had  stipu- 
lated for  no  party,  Mr.  Secretary  Stanton  was 
the  only  other  guest,  besides  his  own  secretary. 
Stanton  is  a man  with  a very  remarkable 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


396 


memory,  and  extraordinarily  familiar  with  my 

books He  and  Sumner  having  been  the 

first  two  public  men  at  the  dying  President’s 
bedside,  and  having  remained  with  him  until  he 
breathed  his  last,  we  fell  into  a very  interesting 
conversation  after  dinner,  when,  each  of  them 
giving  his  own  narrative  separately,  the  usual 
discrepancies  about  details  of  time  were  observ- 
able. Then  Mr.  Stanton  told  me  a curious 
little  story  which  will  form  the  remainder  of 
this  short  letter. 

“ On  the  afternoon  of  the  day  on  which  the 
President  was  shot,  there  was  a cabinet  council 
at  which  he  presided.  Mr.  Stanton,  being  at 
the  time  commander-in-chief  of  the  Northern 
troops  that  were  concentrated  about  here, 
arrived  rather  late.  Indeed  they  were  waiting 
for  him,  and  on  his  entering  the  room,  the  Pre- 
sident broke  off  in  something  he  was  saying,  and 
remarked  ; ‘ Let  us  proceed  to  business,  gentle- 
men.’ Mr.  Stanton  then  noticed,  with  great 
surprise,  that  the  President  sat  with  an  air  of 
dignity  in  his  chair  instead  of  lolling  about  it  in 
the  most  ungainly  attitudes,  as  his  invariable 
custom  was  ; and  that  instead  of  telling  irrelevant 
or  questionable  stories,  he  was  grave  and  calm, 
and  quite  a different  man.  Mr.  Stanton,  on 
leaving  the  council  with  the  Attorney-General, 
said  to  him,  ‘ That  is  the  most  satisfactory  cabi- 
net meeting  I have  attended  for  many  a long 
day  ! What  an  extraordinary  change  in  Mr. 
Lincoln  ' ’ The  Attorney-General  replied,  ‘ We 
all  saw  it  before  you  came  in.  While  we  were 
waiting  for  you,  he  said,  with  his  chin  down  on 
his  breast,  “ Gentlemen,  something  very  extra- 
ordinary is  going  to  happen,  and  that  very  soon.”  ’ 
To  which  the  Attorney-General  had  observed, 

‘ Something  good,  sir,  I hope  ? ’ w'hen  the  Presi- 
dent answered  very  gravely  : ‘ I don’t  know  \ I 
don’t  know.  But  it  will  happen,  and  shortly 
too  ! ’ As  they  were  all  impressed  by  his  man- 
ner, the  Attorney-General  took  him  up  again : 

‘ Have  you  received  any  information,  sir,  not  yet 
disclosed  to  us?’  ‘No,’  answered  the  Presi- 
dent : “but  I have  had  a dream.  And  I have 
now  had  the  same  dream  three  times.  Once, 
on  the  night  preceding  the  Battle  of  Bull  Run. 
Once,  on  the  night  preceding’  such  another 
(naming  a battle  also  not  favourable  to  the 
North).  His  chin  sank  on  his  breast  again,  and 
he  sat  reflecting.  ‘ Might  one  ask  the  nature  of 
this  dream,  sir  ? ’ said  the  Attorney-General. 

‘ Well,’  replied  the  President,  without  lifting  his 
head  or  changing  his  attitude,  ‘ I am  on  a great 
broad  rolling  river — and  I am  in  a boat — and  1 
drift — and  I drift ! — but  this  is  not  business  ’ — 
suddenly  raising  his  face  and  looking  round  the 


table  as  Mr.  Stanton  entered,  ‘ let  us  proceed  to 
business,  gentlemen.’  Mr.  Stanton  and  the 
Attorney-General  said,  as  they  walked  on  to- 
gether, it  would  be  curious  to  notice  whether 
anything  ensued  on  this  ; and  they  agreed  to 
notice.  He  was  shot  that  night.” 

On  his  birthday,  the  seventh  of  February, 
Dickens  had  his  interview  with  President  Andrew 
Johnson.  “This  scrambling  scribblement  is 
resumed  this  morning,  because  I have  just  seen 
the  President  : who  had  sent  to  me  very  cour-  j 
teously  asking  me  to  make  my  own  appoint- 
ment. He  is  a man  with  a remarkable  face, 
indicating  courage,  watchfulness,  and  certainly 
strength  of  purpose.  It  is  a face  of  the  Webster 
type,  but  without  the  ‘ bounce  ’ of  Webster’s 
face.  I would  have  picked  him  out  anywhere 
as  a character  of  mark.  Figure,  rather  stoutish 
for  an  American  ; a trifle  under  the  middle  size  ; 
hands  clasped  in  front  of  him  ; manner,  sup- 
pressed, guarded,  anxious.  Each  of  us  looked 

at  the  other  very  hard It  was  in  his  own 

cabinet  that  I saw  him.  As  I came  away, 
Thornton  drove  up  in  a sleigh — turned  out  for 
a state  occasion  — to  deliver  his  credentials. 
There  was  to  be  a cabinet  council  at  1 2.  The 
room  was  very  like  a London  club’s  ante- 
drawing  room.  On  the  walls,  two  engravings 
only  : one,  of  his  own  portrait;  one,  of  Lin- 
coln’s  In  the  outer  room  was  sitting  a 

certain  sunburnt  General  Blair,  with  many  evi- 
dences of  the  war  upon  him.  He  got  up  to 
shake  hands  with  me,  and  then  I found  that  he 
had  been  out  on  the  Prairie  with  me  five-and- 

twenty  years  ago The  papers  having- 

referred  to  my  birthday’s  falling  to-day,  my  room 
is  filled  wifli  the  most  exquisite  flowers.  They 
came  pouring  in  from  all  sorts  of  people  at 
breakfast  time.  The  audiences  here  are  really 
very  fine.  So  ready  to  laugh  or  cry,  and  doing 
both  so  freely,  that  you  would  suppose  them  to 
be  Manchester  shillings  rather  than  Washington 
half-sovereigns.  Alas  ! alas  ! my  cold  worse 
than  ever.”  So  he  had  written  too  at  the  open- 
ing of  his  letter. 

The  first  reading  had  been  four  days  earlier, 
and  was  described  to  his  daughter  in  a letter  on 
the  4th,  with  a comical  incident  that  occurred  in 
the  course  of  it.  “ The  gas  was  very  defective 
indeed  last  night,  and  I began  with  a small 
speech  to  the  effect  that  1 must  trust  to  the 
brightness  of  their  faces  for  the  illumination  of 
mine.  'J'his  was  taken  greatly.  In  the  Carol  a 
most  ridiculous  incident  occurred.  All  of  a 
sudden,  I saw  a dog  leap  out  from  among  the 
seats  in  the  centre  aisle,  and  look  very  intently 
at  me.  The  general  attention  being  fixed  on 


“IN  A TRANSPORT  OF  PRESENCE  OF  MIND  AND  FURY,  HE  INSTANTLY  CAUGHT  HIM  UP  IN  BOTH  HANDS,  AND 
THREW  HIM  OVER  HIS  OWN  HEAD  OUT  INTO  THE  ENTRY,  WHERE  THE  CHECK-TAKERS  RECEIVED  HIM 
LIKE  A GAME  AT  BALL.” 


cated  itself  to  the  audience,  and  we  roared  at 
one  another,  loud  and  long.”  Three  days  later 
the  sequel  came,  in  a letter  to  his  sister-in-law. 
“ I mentioned  the  dog  on  the  first  night  here  ? 
Next  night,  I thought  I heard  (in  Copperfidd)  a 
suddenly-suppressed  bark.  It  happened  in  this 


wise ; One  of  our  people  standing  just  within 
the  door,  felt  his  leg  touched,  and  looking  down 
beheld  the  dog,  staring  intently  at  me,  and  evi- 
dently just  about  to  bark.  In  a transport  of 
presence  of  mind  and  fury,  he  instantly  caught 
him  up  in  both  hands,  and  threw  him  over  his 


AMERICA:  JANUARY  TO  APRIL,  1868. 


me,  I don’t  think  anybody  saw  this  dog  ; but  I 
felt  so  sure  of  his  turning  up  again  and  barking, 
that  1 kept  my  eye  wandering  about  in  search  of 
him.  He  was  a very  comic  dog,  and  it  was 
well  for  me  that  I was  reading  a comic  part  of 


397 

the  book.  But  when  he  bounced  out  into  the 
centre  aisle  again,  in  an  entirely  new  place,  and 
(still  looking  intently  at  me)  tried  the  effect  of  a 
bark  upon  my  proceedings,  I was  seized  with 
such  a paroxysm  of  laughter  that  it  communi- 


398 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


own  head  into  the  entry,  where  the  check-takers 
received  him  like  a game  at  ball.  Last  night 
he  came  again,  with  another  dog ; but  our  people 
were  so  sharply  on  the  look-out  for  him  that  he 
didn’t  get  in.  He  had  evidently  promised  to 
pass  the  other  dog,  free.” 

What  is  e.xpressed  in  these  letters,  of  a still 
active,  hopeful,  enjoying,  energetic  spirit,  able  to 
assert  itself  against  illness  of  the  body  and  in 
some  sort  to  overmaster  it,  was  also  so  strongly 
impressed  upon  those  who  were  with  him,  that, 
seeing  his  sufferings  as  they  did,  they  yet  found 
it  difficult  to  understand  the  extent  of  them. 
The  sadness  thus  ever  underlying  his  triumph 
makes  it  all  very  tragical.  “ That  afternoon  of 
my  birthday,”  he  wrote  from  Baltimore  on  the 
nth,  “my  catarrh  was  in  such  a state  that 
Charles  Sumner,  coming  in  at  five  o’clock,  and 
finding  me  covered  with  mustard  poultice,  and 
apparently  voiceless,  turned  to  Dolby  and  said  : 

‘ Surely,  Mr.  Dolby,  it  is  impossible  that  he  can 
read  to-night  ? ’ Says  Dolby  : ‘ Sir,  I have  told 
Mr.  Dickens  so,  four  times  to-day,  and  I have 
been  very  anxious.  But  you  have  no  idea  how 
he  will  change,  when  he  gets  to  the  little  table.’ 
After  five  minutes  of  the  little  table  I was  not 
(for  the  time)  even  hoarse.  The  frequent  expe- 
rience of  this  return  of  force  when  it  is  wanted, 
saves  me  a vast  amount  of  anxiety ; but  I am 
not  at  times  without  the  nervous  dread  that  I 
may  some  day  sink  altogether.”  To  the  same 
effect  in  another  letter  he  adds  : “ Dolby  and 
Osgood,”  the  latter  represented  the  publishing 
firm  of  Mr.  Fields  and  was  one  of  the  travelling 
staff,  “ who  do  the  most  ridiculous  things  to 
keep  me  in  spirits  (I  am  often  very  heavy,  and 
rarely  sleep  much),  are  determined  to  have  a 
walking  match  at  Boston  on  the  last  day  of 
February  to  celebrate  the  arrival  of  the  day  Avhen 
I can  say  ‘ next  month  ! ’ for  home.”  The 
match  ended  in  the  Englishman’s  defeat ; which 
Dickens  doubly  commemorated,  by  a narrative 
of  the  American  victory  in  sporting  newspaper- 
style,  and  by  a dinner  in  Boston  to  a party  of 
dear  friends  there. 

After  Baltimore  he  was  reading  again  at  Phila- 
delphia, from  which  he  wrote  to  his  sister-in-law 
on  the  T3th  as  to  a characteristic  trait  observed 
in  both  places.  “ Nothing  will  induce  the  people 
to  believe  in  the  farewells.  At  Baltimore  on 
Tuesday  night  (a  very  brilliant  night  indeed), 
they  asked  as  they  came  out : ' When  will  Mr. 
Dickens  read  here  again?’  ‘Never.’  ‘Non- 
sense ! Not  come  back,  after  such  houses  as 
these?’  ‘Come.  Say  when  he’ll  read  again.’ 
Just  the  same  here.  We  could  as  soon  persuade 
them  that  I am  the  President,  as  that  to-morrow 


iright  I am  going  to  read  here  for  die  last  time. 

. . . . There  is  a child  in  this  house — a little 
girl— to  whom  I presented  a black  doll  when  I 
was  here  last;  and  as  I have  just  seen  her  eye 
at  the  keyhole  since  I began  writing  this,  I think 
she  and  the  doll  must  be  outside  still.  ‘ 'W'hen 
you  sent  it  up  to  me  by  the  coloured  boy,’  she 
said  after  receiving  it  (coloured  boy  is  the  term 
for  black  waiter),  ‘ I gave  such  a cream  that  Ma 
come  running  in  and  creamed  too,  ’cos  she  fort 
Pd  hurt  myself.  But  I creamed  a cream  of  joy.' 
She  had  a friend  to  play  with  her  that  day,  and ' 
brought  the  friend  with  her — to  my  infinite  con- 
fusion. A friend  all  stockings  and  much  too  tall, 
who  sat  on  the  sofa  very  far  back  with  her  stock- 
ings sticking  stiffly  out  in  front  of  her,  and  glared 
at  me,  and  never  spake  a word.  Dolby  found 
us  confronted  in  a sort  of  fascination,  like  serpent 
and  bird.” 

On  the  15th  he  was  again  at  New  York,  in 
the  thick  of  more  troubles  with  the  speculators. 
They  involved  even  charges  of  fraud  in  ticket- 
sales  at  Newhaven  and  Providence;  indignation 
meetings  having  been  held  by  the  Mayors,  and 
unavailing  attempts  made  by  his  manager  to 
turn  the  wrath  aside.  “ I expect  him  back  here 
presently  half  bereft  of  his  senses,  and  I should 
be  wholly  bereft  of  mine  if  the  situation  were 
not  comical  as  well  as  disagreeable.  We  can 
sell  at  our  own  box-office  to  any  extent ; but  we 
cannot  buy  back  of  the  speculators,  because 
we  have  informed  the  public  that  all  the 
tickets  are  gone ; and  even  if  we  made  the  sacri- 
fice of  buying  at  their  price  and  selling  at  ours, 
we  should  be  accused  of  treating  with  them  and 
of  making  money  by  it.”  It  ended  in  Providence 
by  his  going  himself  to  the  place  and  making  a 
speech  ; and  in  Newhaven  it  ended  by  his  send- 
ing back  the  money  taken,  with  intimation  that 
he  would  not  read  until  there  had  been  a new 
distribution  of  the  tickets  approved  by  all  the 
town.  Fresh  disturbance  broke  out  upon  this ; 
but  he  stuck  to  his  determination  to  delay  the 
reading  until  the  heats  had  cooled  down,  and 
what  should  have  been  given  in  the  middle  of 
February  he  did  not  give  until  the  close  of 
March. 

The  Readings  he  had  promised  at  the  smaller 
outlying  places  by  the  Canadian  frontier  and 
Niagara  district,  including  Syracuse,  Rochester, 
and  Buffalo,  were  appointed  for  that  same  March 
month  which  was  to  be  the  interval  between  the 
close  of  the  ordinary  readings  and  the  farewells 
in  the  two  leading  cities.  All  that  had  been 
promised  in  New  York  were  closed  when  he  re- 
turned to  Boston  on  the  23rd  of  February,  ready 
for  the  increase  he  had  promised  there  ; but  the 


AMERICA:  JANUARY  TO  APRIL,  1868. 


check  of  a sudden  political  excitement  came. 
It  was  the  month  when  the  vote  was  taken  for 
impeachment  of  President  Johnson.  “ It  is 
well”  (25th  of  February)  ‘"that  the  money  has 
flowed  in  hitherto  so  fast,  for  I have  a misgiving 
that  the  great  excitement  about  the  President’s 

impeachment  will  damage  our  receipts 

The  vote  was  taken  at  5 last  night.  At  7 the 
three  large  theatres  here,  all  in  a rush  of  good 
business,  were  stricken  with  paralysis.  At  8 our 
long  line  of  outsiders  waiting  for  unoccupied 
places,  was  nowhere.  To-day  you  hear  all  the 
people  in  the  streets  talking  of  only  one  thing. 

; I shall  suppress  my  next  week’s  promised  read- 
I ings  (by  good  fortune  not  yet  announced),  and 
j watch  the  course  of  events.  Nothing  in  this 
I country,  as  I before  said,  lasts  long ; and  I think 
j it  likely  that  the  public  may  be  heartily  tired  of 
the  President’s  name  by  the  9th  of  March,  when 
I I read  at  a considerable  distance  from  here.  So 
behold  me  with  a whole  week’s  holiday  in  view !” 
Two  days  later  he  wrote  pleasantly  to  his  sister- 
in-law  of  his  audiences.  “ They  have  come  to 
regard  the  Readings  and  the  Reader  as  their 
peculiar  property ; and  you  would  be  both 
amused  and  pleased  if  you  could  see  the  curious 
way  in  which  they  show  this  increased  interest 
in  both.  Whenever  they  laugh  or  cry,  they 
have  taken  to  applauding  as  well;  and  the  result 
is  very  inspiriting.  I shall  remain  here  until 
Saturday  the  7th;  but  after  to-morrow  night 
shall  not  read  here  until  the  ist  of  April,  when 
I begin  my  farewells — six  in  number.”  On  the 
28th  he  wrote  : “To-morrow  fortnight  we  pur- 
pose being  at  the  Falls  of  Niagara,  and  then  we 
shall  come  back  and  really  begin  to  wind  up.  I 
have  got  to  know  the  Carol  so  well  that  I can’t 
remember  it,  and  occasionally  go  dodging  about 
in  the  wildest  manner,  to  pick  up  lost  pieces. 
They  took  it  so  tremendously  last  night  that  I 
mas  stopped  every  five  minutes.  One  poor 
young  girl  in  mourning  burst  into  a passion  of 
grief  about  Tiny  Tim,  and  was  taken  out.  We 
had  a fine  house,  and,  in  the  interval  while  I 
was  out,  they  covered  the  little  table  with 
flowers.  The  cough  has  taken  a fresh  start  as 
if  it  were  a novelty,  and  is  even  worse  than  ever 
to-day.  There  is  a lull  in  the  excitement  about 
the  President : but  the  articles  of  impeachment 
are  to  be  produced  this  afternoon,  and  then  it 
may  set  in  again.  Osgood  came  into  camp  last 
night  from  selling  in  remote  places,  and  reports 
that  at  Rochester  and  Buffalo  (both  places  near 
the  frontier),  tickets  were  bought  by  Canada 
people,  who  had  struggled  across  the  frozen 
river  and  clambered  over  all  sorts  of  obstruc- 
tions to  get  them.  Some  of  those  distant  halls 


399 


turn  out  to  be  smaller  than  represented  ; but  I 
have  no  doubt — to  use  an  American  expression 
— that  we  shall ‘get  along.’  The  second  half 
of  the  receipts  cannot  reasonably  be  expected 
to  come  up  to  the  first ; political  circumstances, 
and  all  other  surroundings,  considered.” 

His  old  ill  luck  in  travel  pursued  him.  On 
the  day  his  letter  was  written  a snow-storm 
began,  with  a heavy  gale  of  wind ; and  “ after 
all  the  hard  weather  gone  through,”  he  wrote  on 
the  2nd  of  March,  “ this  is  the  worst  day  we 
have  seen.  It  is  telegraphed  that  the  storm 
prevails  over  an  immense  extent  of  country,  and 
is  just  the  same  at  Chicago  as  here.  I hope  it 
may  prove  a wind  up.  We  are  getting  sick  of 
the  very  sound  of  sleigh-bells  even.”  The  roads 
were  so  bad  and  the  trains  so  much  out  of  time, 
that  he  had  to  start  a day  earlier;  and  on  the 
6th  of  March  his  tour  north-west  began,  with  the 
gale  still  blowing  and  the  snow  falling  heavily. 
On  the  13th  he  wrote  to  me  from  Buffalo. 

“We  go  to  the  Falls  of  Niagara  to-morrow 
for  our  own  pleasure  ; and  I take  all  the  men, 
as  a treat.  We  found  Rochester  last  Tuesday 
in  a very  curious  state.  Perhaps  you  know  that 
the  Great  Falls  of  the  Genessee  River  (really 
very  fine,  even  so  near  Niagara)  are  at  that 
place.  In  the  height  of  a sudden  thaw,  an 
immense  bank  of  ice  above  the  rapids  refused  to 
yield ; so  that  the  town  was  threatened  (for  the 
second  time  in  four  years)  with  submersion. 
Boats  were  ready  in  the  streets,  all  the  people 
were  up  all  night,  and  none  but  the  children 
slept.  In  the  dead  of  the  night  a thundering 
noise  was  heard,  the  ice  gave  way,  the  swollen 
river  came  raging  and  roaring  down  the  Falls, 
and  the  town  was  safe.  Very  picturesque  ! but 
‘ not  very  good  for  business,’  as  the  manager 
says.  Especially  as  the  hall  stands  in  the  centre 
of  danger,  and  had  ten  feet  of  water  in  it  on  the 
last  occasion  of  flood.  But  I think  we  had 
above  J200  English.  On  the  previous  night 
at  Syracuse — a most  out  of  the  way  and  un- 
intelligible-looking place,  with  apparently  no 
people  in  it — we  had  ;^375  odd.  Here  we  had, 
last  night,  and  shall  have  to-night,  whatever  we 
can  cram  into  the  hall. 

“ This  Buffalo  has  become  a large  and  im- 
portant town,  with  numbers  of  German  and  Irish 
in  it.  But  it  is  very  curious  to  notice,  as  we 
touch  the  frontier,  that  the  American  female 
beauty  dies  out ; and  a woman’s  face  clumsily 
compounded  of  German,  Irish,  Western  Ame- 
rica, and  Canadian,  not  yet  fused  together,  and 
not  yet  moulded,  obtains  instead.  Our  show  of 
Beauty  at  night  is,  generally,  remarkable  ; but  we 
had  not  a dozen  pretty  women  in  the  whole 


400 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


throng  last  night,  and  the  faces  were  all  blunt.  I 
have  just  been  walking  about,  and  observing  the 

same  thing  in  the  streets The  winter  has 

been  so  severe,  that  the  hotel  on  the  English 
side  at  Niagara  (which  has  the  best  view  of  the 
Falls,  and  is  for  that  reason  very  preferable)  is 
not  yet  open.  So  we  go,  perforce,  to  the  Ame- 
rican : which  telgraphs  back  to  our  telegram  : 
‘all  Mr.  Dickens’s  requirements  perfectly  under- 
stood.’ I have  not  yet  been  in  more  than  two 
very  bad  inns.  I have  been  in  some,  where  a 
good  deal  of  what  is  popularly  called  ‘ slopping 
round  ’ has  prevailed ; but  have  been  able  to  get 
on  very  well.  ‘ Slopping  round,’  so  used,  means 
untidyness  and  disorder.  It  is  a comically  ex- 
pressive phrase,  and  has  many  meanings.  Fields 
was  asking  the  price  of  a quarter-cask  of  sherry 
the  other  day.  ‘ Wa’al  Mussr  Fields,’  the  mer- 
chant replies,  ‘ that  varies  according  to  quality, 
as  is  but  nay’tral.  If  yer  wa’ant  a sherry  just  to 
slop  round  with  it,  I can  fix  you  some  at  a very 
low  figger.’  ” 

His  letter  was  resumed  at  Rochester  on  the 
i8th.  “After  two  most  brilliant  days  at  the 
Falls  of  Niagara,  we  got  back  here  last  night. 
To-morrow  morning  we  turn  out  at  6 for  a long 
railway  journey  back  to  Albany.  But  it  is 
nearly  all  ‘back’  now,  thank  God!  I don’t 
know  how  long,  though,  before  turning,  we 

might  have  gone  on  at  Buffalo We  went 

everywhere  at  the  Falls,  and  saw  them  in  every 
aspect.  There  is  a suspension  bridge  across, 
now,  some  two  miles  or  more  from  the  Horse 
Shoe ; and  another,  half  a mile  nearer,  is  to  be 
opened  in  July.  They  are  very  fine  but  very 
ticklish,  hanging  aloft  there,  in  the  continual 
vibration  of  the  thundering  water ; nor  is  one 
greatly  reassured  by  the  printed  notice  that 
troops  must  not  cross  them  at  step,  that  bands 
of  music  must  not  play  in  crossing,  and  the  like. 
I shall  never  forget  the  last  aspect  in  which  we 
saw  Niagara  yesterday.  We  had  been  every- 
where, when  I thought  of  struggling  (in  an  open 
carriage)  up  some  very  difficult  ground  for  a 
good  distance,  and  getting  where  we  could  stand 
above  the  river,  and  see  it,  as  it  rushes  forward 
to  its  tremendous  leap,  coming  for  miles  and 
miles.  All  away  to  the  horizon  on  our  right  was 
a wonderful  confusion  of  bright  green  and  white 
water.  As  we  stood  watching  it  with  our  faces 
to  the  top  of  the  Falls,  our  backs  were  towards 
the  sun.  The  majestic  valley  below  the  Falls, 
so  seen  through  the  vast  cloud  of  spray,  was 
made  of  rainbow.  The  high  banks,  the  riven 
rocks,  the  forests,  the  bridge,  the  buildings,  the 
air,  the  sky,  were  all  made  of  rainbow.  Nothing 
in  Turner’s  finest  water-colour  drawings,  done  in 


his  greatest  day,  is  so  ethereal,  so  imaginative, 
so  gorgeous  in  colour,  as  what  I then  beheld.  I 
seemed  to  be  lifted  from  the  earth  and  to  be 
looking  into  Heaven.  What  I once  said  to  you, 
as  I witnessed  the  scene  five  and  twenty  years 
ago,  all  came  back  at  this  most  affecting  and 
sublime  sight.  The  ‘ muddy  vesture  of  our 
clay  ’ falls  from  us  as  we  look I char- 

tered a separate  carriage  for  our  men,  so  that 
they  might  see  all  in  their  own  way,  and  at  their 
own  time. 

“ There  is  a great  deal  of  water  out  between 
Rochester  and  New  York,  and  travelling  is  very 
uncertain,  as  I fear  we  may  find  to-morrow. 
There  is  again  some  little  alarm  here  on  account 
of  the  river  rising  too  fast.  But  our  to-night’s 
house  is  far  ahead  of  the  first.  Most  charming 
halls  in  these  places  ; excellent  for  sight  and 
sound.  Almost  invariably  built  as  theatres,  with 
stage,  scenery,  and  good  dressing-rooms.  Au- 
dience seated  to  perfection  (every  seat  always 
separate),  excellent  doorways  and  passages,  and 
Ijrilliant  light.  My  screen  and  gas  are  set  up  in 
front  of  the  drop-curtain,  and  the  most  delicate 
touches  will  tell  anywhere.  No  creature  but  my 
own  men  ever  near  me.”  His  anticipation  of  the 
uncertainty  that  might  beset  his  travel  back  had 
dismal  fulfilm.ent.  It  is  described  in  a letter 
written  on  the  21st  from  Springfield  to  his  valued 
friend,  Mr.  Frederic  Ouvry,  having  much  inter- 
est of  its  own,  and  making  lively  addition  to 
the  picture  which  these  chapters  give.  The  un- 
flagging spirit  that  bears  up  under  all  disadvan- 
tages is  again  marvellously  shown.  “ You  can 
hardly  imagine  what  my  life  is  wit'll  its  present 
condition — how  hard  the  work  is,  and  how  little 
time  I seem  to  have  at  my  disposal.  It  is 
necessary  to  the  daily  recovery  of  my  voice  tliat 
I should  dine  at  3 when  not  travelling ; I begin 
to  prepare  for  the  evening  at  6 ; and  I get  back 
to  my  hotel,  pretty  well  knocked  up,  at  half- 
past 10.  Add  to  all  this,  perpetual  railway 
travelling  in  one  of  the  severest  winters  ever 
known ; and  you  will  descry  a reason  or  two  for 
my  being  an  indifferent  correspondent.  Fast 
Sunday  evening  I left  the  Falls  of  Niagara  for 
this  and  two  intervening  places.  As  there  was 
a great  thaw,  and  the  melted  snow  was  swelling 
all  the  rivers,  the  whole  country  for  three  hun- 
dred miles  was  flooded.  On  the  Tuesday  after- 
noon (I  had  read  on  the  Monday)  the  train 
gave  in,  as  under  circumstances  utterly  hope- 
less, and  stopped  at  a place  called  Utica;  the 
greater  part  of  which  was  under  water,  while  the 
high  and  dry  part  could  produce  nothing  ])arti- 
cularto  eat.  Here,  some  of  the  wrctcherl  jrassen- 
gers  passed  the  night  in  the  train,  while  others 


AMERICA:  JANUARY  TO  APRIL,  1868. 


stormed  the  hotel.  I was  fortunate  enough  to 
get  a bed-room,  and  garnished  it  with  an  enor- 
mous jug  of  gin-punch ; over  which  I and  the 
manager  played  a double-dummy  rubber.  At 
six  in  the  morning  we  were  knocked  up  : ‘ to 
come  aboard  and  try  it.’  At  half-past  six  we 
were  knocked  up  again  with  the  tidings  ‘ that  it 
was  of  no  use  coming  aboard  or  trying  it.’  At 
eight  all  the  bells  in  the  town  were  set  agoing 
to  summon  us  to  ‘ come  aboard  ’ instantly. 
And  so  w'e  started,  through  the  water,  at  four  or 
five  miles  an  hour ; seeing  nothing  but  drowned 
farms,  barns  adrift  like  Noah’s  arks,  deserted 
villages,  broken  bridges,  and  all  manner  of  ruin. 
I was  to  read  at  Albany  that  night,  and  all  the 
tickets  were  sold.  A very  active  superintendent 
of  works  assured  me  that  if  I could  be  ‘got 
along,’  he  was  the  man  to  get  me  along : and 
that  if  I couldn’t  be  got  along,  I might  conclude 
that  it  couldn’t  possibly  be  fixed.  He  then 
turned  on  a hundred  men  in  seven-league  boots, 
who  went  ahead  of  the  train,  each  armed  with  a 
long  pole  and  pushing  the  blocks  of  ice  away. 
Following  this  cavalcade,  we  got  to  land  at  last, 
and  arrived  in  time  for  me  to  read  the  Carol  and 
Trial  triumphantly.  My  people  (I  had  five  of 
the  staff  with  me)  turned  to  at  their  work  with  a 
will,  and  did  a day’s  labour  in  a couple  of  hours. 
If  we  had  not  come  in  as  we  did,  I should  have 
lost  ;^35o,  and  Albany  would  have  gone  dis- 
tracted. You  may  conceive  what  the  flood  was, 
when  I hint  at  the  two  most  notable  incidents 
of  our  journey  : — i.  We  took  the  passengers  out 
of  two  trains,  who  had  been  in  the  water,  im- 
movable all  night  and  all  the  previous  day. 
2,  We  released  a large  quantity  of  sheep  and 
cattle  from  trucks  that  had  been  in  the  water  I 
don’t  know  how  long,  but  so  long  that  the 
creatures  in  them  had  begun  to  eat  each  other, 
and  presented  a most  horrible  spectacle.” 

Beside  Springfield,  he  had  engagements  at 
Portland,  New  Bedford,  and  other  places  in 
Massachusetts,  before  the  Boston  farewells  be- 
gan j and  there  wanted  but  two  days  to  bring 
him  to  that  time,  when  he  thus  described  to  his 
daughter  the  labour  which  was  to  occupy  them. 
His  letter  was  from  Portland  on  the  29th  of 
March,  and  it  will  be  observed  that  he  no  longer 
compromises  or  glozes  over  what  he  was  and 
had  been  suffering.  During  his  terrible,  travel 
to  Albany  his  cough  had  somewhat  spared  him, 
but  the  old  illness  had  broken  out  in  his  foot ; 
and,  though  he  persisted  in  ascribing  it  to  the 
former  supposed  origin  (“  having  been  lately 
again  wet,  from  walking  in  melted  snow,  which 
I suppose  to  be  the  occasion  of  its  swelling  in 
the  old  way  ”),  it  troubled  him  sorely,  extended 


401 

I now  at  intervals  to  the  right  foot  also,  and  lamed 
him  for  all  the  time  he  remained  in  the  States. 
“ I should  have  written  to  you  by  the  last  mail, 
but  I really  was  too  unwell  to  do  it.  The 
writing  day  was  last  Friday,  when  I ought  to 
have  left  Boston  for  New  Bedford  (55  miles) 
before  eleven  in  the  morning.  But  I was  so 
exhausted  that  I could  not  be  got  up,  and  had 
to  take  my  chance  of  an  evening  train’s  pro- 
ducing me  in  time  to  read — which  it  just  did. 
With  the  return  of  snow,  nine  days  ago,  my 
cough  became  as  bad  as  ever.  I have  coughed 
every  morning  from  two  or  three  till  five  or  six, 
and  have  been  absolutely  sleepless.  I have  had 
no  appetite  besides,  and  no  taste.  Last  night 
here,  I took  some  laudanum  ; and  it  is  the  only 
thing  that  has  done  me  good,  though  it  made  me 
sick  this  morning.  But  the  life,  in  this  climate, 
is  so  very  hard  ! When  I did  manage  to  get  to 
New  Bedford,  I read  with  my  utmost  force  and 
vigour.  Next  morning,  well  or  ill,  I must  turn 
out  at  seven,  to  get  back  to  Boston  on  my  way 
here.  I dined  at  Boston  at  three,  and  at  five 
had  to  come  on  here  (a  hundred  and  thirty 
miles  or  so)  for  to-morrow  night : there  being  no 
Sunday  train.  To-morrow  night  I read  here  in 
a very  large  place;  and  Tuesday  morning  at  six 
I must  again  start,  to  get  back  to  Boston  once 
more.  But  after  to-morrow  night  I have  only 
the  farewells,  thank  God ! Even  as  it  is,  how- 
ever, I have  had  to  write  to  Dolby  (who  is  in 
New  York)  to  see  my  doctor  there,  and  ask  him 
to  send  me  some  composing  medicine  that  I 
can  take  at  night,  inasmuch  as  without  sleep  I 
cannot  get  through.  However  sympathetic  and 
devoted  the  people  are  about  one,  they  can  not 
be  got  to  comprehend,  seeing  me  able  to  do  the 
two  hours  when  the  time  comes  round,  that  it 
may  also  involve  much  misery.”  To  myself  on 
the  30th  he  wrote  from  the  same  place,  making 
like  confession.  No  comment  could  deepen  the 
sadness  of  the  story  of  suffering,  revealed  in  his 
own  simple  language.  “ I write  in  a town  three 
parts  of  which  were  burnt  down  in  a tremendous 
fire  three  years  ago.  The  people  lived  in  tents 
while  their  city  was  rebuilding.  The  charred 
trunks  of  the  trees  with  which  the  streets  of  the 
old  city  were  planted,  yet  stand  here  and  there 
in  the  new  thoroughfares  like  black  spectres. 
The  rebuilding  is  still  in  progress  everywhere. 
Yet  such  is  the  astonishing  energy  of  the  people 
that  the  large  hall  in  which  I am  to  read  to-night 
(its  predecessor  was  burnt)  would  compare  very 
favourably  with  the  Free  Trade  Hall  at  Man- 
chester! ....  I am  nearly  used  up.  Climate, 
distance,  catarrh,  travelling,  and  hard  work, 
have  begun  (I  may  say  so,  now  they  are  nearly 


402  THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

all  over)  to  tell  heavily  upon  me.  Sleeplessness 
besets  me  ; and  if  I had  engaged  to  go  on  into 
May,  I think  I must  have  broken  down.  It  was 
well  that  I cut  off  the  Far  West  and  Canada 
when  I did.  There  would  else  have  been  a sad 
complication.  It  is  impossible  to  make  the 
people  about  one  understand,  however  zealous 
and  devoted  (it  is  impossible  even  to  make 
Dolby  understand  until  the  pinch  comes),  that 
the  power  of  coming  up  to  the  mark  every 
night,  with  spirits  and  spirit,  may  coexist  with 
the  nearest  approach  to  sinking  under  it.  When 
I got  back  to  Boston  on  Thursday,  after  a very 
hard  three  weeks,  I saw  that  Fields  was  very  grave 
about  my  going  on  to  NewBedford  (55  miles)  next 
day,  and  then  coming  on  here  (180  miles)  next 
day.  But  the  stress  is  over,  and  so  I can  afford  to 
look  back  upon  it,  and  think  about  it,  and  write 
about  it.”  On  the  31st  he  closed  his  letter  at 
Boston,  and  he  was  at  home  when  I heard  of 
him  again.  “ The  latest  intelligence,  my  dear 
old  fellow,  is,  that  I have  arrived  here  safely,  and 
that  I am  certainly  better.  I consider  my  work 
virtually  over,  now.  My  impression  is,  that  the 
political  crisis  will  damage  the  farewells  by  about 
one  half.  I cannot  yet  speak  by  the  card ; but 
my  predictions  here,  as  to  our  proceedings,  have 
thus  far  been  invariably  right.  We  took  last 
night  at  Portland,  ^360  English ; where  a costly 
Italian  troupe,  using  the  same  hall  to-night,  had 
not  booked  ;^i4  ! It  is  the  same  all  over  the 
country,  and  the  worst  is  not  seen  yet.  Every- 
thing is  becoming  absorbed  in  the  Presidential 
impeachment,  helped  by  the  next  Presidential 
election.  Connecticut  is  particularly  excited. 
The  night  after  I read  at  Hartford  this  last 
week,  there  were  two  political  meetings  in  the 
town  ; meetings  of  two  parties ; and  the  hotel 
was  full  of  speakers  coming  in  from  outlying 
places.  So  at  Newhaven  : the  moment  I had 
finished,  carpenters  came  in  to  prepare  for  the 
next  night’s  politics.  So  at  Buffalo.  So  every- 
where very  soon.” 

In  the  same  tone  he  wrote  his  last  letter  to 
his  sister-in-law  from  Boston.  “ My  notion  of 
the  farewells  is  pretty  certain  now  to  turn  out 
right.  We  had  ^^300  English  here  last  night. 
To-day  is  a Fast  Day,  and  to-night  we  shall 
probably  take  much  less.  Then  it  is  likely  that 
we  shall  pull  up  again,  and  strike  a good  reason- 
able average ; but  it  is  not  at  all  probable  that 
we  shall  do  anything  enormous.  Every  pulpit 
in  Massachusetts  will  resound  with  violent 
politics  to-day  and  to-night.”  That  was  on  the 
second  of  April,  and  a postscript  was  added. 
“ Friday  afternoon  the  3rd.  Catarrh  worse  than 
ever ! and  we  don’t  know  (at  four  o’clock) 

whether  I can  read  to-night  or  must  stop. 
Otherwise,  all  well.” 

Dickens’s  last  letter  from  America  was  written 
to  his  daughter  Mary  from  Boston  on  the  9th  of 
April,  the  day  before  his  sixth  and  last  farewell 
night.  “ I not  only  read  last  Friday  when  I 
was  doubtful  of  being  able  to  do  so,  but  read  as 
I never  did  before,  and  astonished  the  audience 
quite  as  much  as  myself  You  never  saw  or 
heard  such  a scene  of  excitement.  Longfellow 
and  all  the  Cambridge  men  have  urged  me  to 
give  in.  I have  been  very  near  doing  so,  but 
feel  stronger  to-day.  I cannot  tell  whether  the 
catarrh  may  have  done  me  any  lasting  injury  in 
the  lungs  or  other  breathing  organs,  until  I shall 
have  rested  and  got  home.  I hope  and  believe 
not.  Consider  the  weather  ! There  have  been 
two  snow  storms  since  I wrote  last,  and  to-day 
the  town  is  blotted  out  in  a ceaseless  whirl  of 
snow  and  wind.  Dolby  is  as  tender  as  a woman, 
and  as  watchful  as  a doctor.  He  never  leaves 
me  during  the  reading,  now,  but  sits  at  the  side 
of  the  platform,  and  keeps  his  eye  upon  me  all 
the  time.  Ditto  George  the  gasman,  steadiest 
and  most  reliable  man  I ever  employed.  I 
have  Donibey  to  do  to-night,  and  must  go 
through  it  carefully ; so  here  ends  my  report. 
The  personal  affection  of  the  people  in  this 
place  is  charming  to  the  last.  Did  I tell  you 
that  the  New  York  Press  are  going  to  give  me  a 
public  dinner  on  Saturday  the  18th?” 

In  New  York,  where  there  were  five  farewell 
nights,  three  thousand  two  hundred  and  ninety 
eight  dollars  were  the  receipts  of  the  last,  on  the 
2oth  of  April ; those  of  the  last  at  Boston,  on 
the  8th,  having  been  three  thousand  four  hun- 
dred and  fifty-six  dollars.  But,  on  earlier  nights 
in  the  same  cities  respectively,  these  sums  also 
had  been  reached ; and  indeed,  making  allow- 
ance for  an  excei)tional  night  here  and  there, 
the  receipts  varied  so  wonderfully  little,  that  a 
mention  of  the  highest  average  returns  from 
other  places  will  give  no  exaggerated  impression 
of  the  ordinary  receipts  throughout.  Excluding 
fractions  of  dollars,  the  lowest  were  New  Bed- 
ford ($1640),  Rochester  (Sjjjipofi),  Springfield 
($1970),  ami  Providence  ($2140).  Albany  and 
Worcester  averaged  something  less  than  $2400; 
while  Hartford,  Buffalo,  Baltimore,  Syracuse, 
Newhaven,  and  Portland  rose  to  $2600.  Wash- 
ington’s last  night  was  $2610,  no  night  there 
having  less  than  $2500.  Philadelphia  cxccerled 
Washington  by  $300,  and  Brooklyn  went  ahead 
of  Philadelphia  by  $200.  The  amount  taken 
at  the  four  Brooklyn  readings  M’as  11,128 
dollars. 

The  New  York  public  dinner  was  given  at 

LAST  READINGS. 


403 


Delmonico’s,  the  hosts  were  more  than  two 
Inindrcd,  and  the  chair  was  taken  by  Mr. 
Horace  Greeley.  Dickens  attended  with  great 
difficulty,  and  spoke  in  pain.  But  he  used  the 
occasion  to  bear  his  testimony  to  the  changes 
of  twenty-five  years  ; the  rise  of  vast  new  cities ; 
growth  in  the  graces  and  amenities  of  life; 
much  improvement  in  the  press,  essential  to 
every  other  advance;  and  changes  in  himself 
leading  to  opinions  more  deliberately  formed. 
He  promised  his  kindly  entertainers  that  no 
copy  of  his  Notes,  or  his  Chuzzlewii,  should  in 
future  be  issued  by  him  without  accompanying 
mention  of  the  changes  to  which  he  had  referred 
that  night;  of  the  politeness,  delicacy,  sweet 


temper,  hospitality,  and  consideration  in  all 
ways  for  which  he  had  to  thank  them  ; and  of 
his  gratitude  for  the  respect  shown,  during  all 
his  visit,  to  the  privacy  enforced  upon  him  by 
the  nature  of  his  work  and  the  condition  of  his 
health. 

He  had  to  leave  the  room  before  the  pro- 
ceedings were  over.  On  the  following  Monday 
he  read  to  his  last  American  audience,  telling 
them  at  the  close  that  he  hoped  often  to  recall 
them,  equally  by  his  winter  fire  and  in  the  green 
summer  weather,  and  never  as  a mere  public 
audience  but  as  a host  of  personal  friends. 
He  sailed  two  days  later  in  the  “ Russia,”  and 
reached  England  in  the  first  week  of  May  1868. 


BOOK  ELEVENTH.— SUMMING  UP. 

1868 1870.  ^T.  56 58. 

I.  Last  Re.adings.  [ II.  Last  Book. 

III.  Personal  Characteristics. 


I. 


LAST  READINGS. 

1868 — 1870. 

AVOURABLE  weather  helped 
Dickens  pleasantly  home.  He  had 
profited  greatly  by  the  sea  voyage, 
perhaps  greatly  more  by  its  repose  ; 
and  on  the  25  th  of  May  he  de- 
■ scribed  himself  to  his  Boston  friends 
itJj  * 3.S  brown  beyond  belief,  and  causing  the 
greatest  disappointment  in  all  quarters 
by  looking  so  well.  “ My  doctor  was  quite 
broken  down  in  spirits  on  seeing  me  for  the 
first  time  last  Saturday.  Good  lord  ! seven  years 
younger!  said  the  doctor,  recoiling.”  That  he 
gave  all  the  credit  to  “ those  fine  days  at  sea,” 
and  none  to  the  rest  from  such  labours  as  he 
had  passed  through,  the  close  of  the  letter  too 
sadly  showed.  “We  are  already  settling — think 
of  this  ! the  details  of  my  farewell  course  of 
readings.” 

Even  on  his  way  out  to  America  that  enter- 
prise was  in  hand.  From  Halifax  he  had 
wi'itten  to  me.  “ I told  the  Chappells  that 
when  I got  back  to  England,  I would  have  a 
series  of  farewell  readings  in  town  and  country  ; 
and  then  read  No  More.  They  at  once  offer  in 


writing  to  pay  all  expenses  whatever,  to  pay  the 
ten  per  cent,  for  management,  and  to  pay  me, 
for  a series  of  75,  six  thousand  pounds.”  The 
terms  were  raised  and  settled  before  the  first 
Boston  readings  closed.  The  number  was  to 
be  a hundred ; and  the  payment,  over  and 
above  expenses  and  per  centage,  eight  thousand 
pounds.  Such  a temptation  undoubtedly  was 
great;  and  though  it  was  a fatal  mistake  which 
Dickens  committed  in  yielding  to  it,  it  was  not 
an  ignoble  one.  He  did  it  under  no  excitement 
from  the  American  gains,  of  which  he  knew 
nothing  when  he  pledged  himself  to  the  enter- 
prise. No  man  could  care  essentially  less  for 
mere  money  than  he  did.  But  the  necessary 
provision  for  many  sons  was  a constant  anxiety ; 
he  was  proud  of  what  the  Readings  had  done  to 
abridge  this  care ; and  the  very  strain  of  them 
under  which  it  seems  that  his  health  had  first  j 
given  way,  and  which  he  always  steadily  refused 
to  connect  especially  with  them,  had  also  broken 
the  old  confidence  of  being  at  all  times  avail- 
able for  his  higher  pursuit.  What  affected  his 
health  only  he  would  not  regard  as  part  of  the 
question  either  way.  That  was  to  be  borne  as 
the  lot  more  or  less  of  all  men ; and  the  more 
thorough  he  could  make  his  feeling  of  inde- 
pendence, and  of  ability  to  rest,  by  what  was 
now  in  hand,  the  better  his  final  chances  of  a 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


404 


perfect  recovery  would  be.  That  was  the  spirit 
in  which  he  entered  on  his  last  engagement. 
It  was  an  opportunity  offered  for  making  a par- 
ticular work  really  complete  before  he  should 
abandon  it  for  ever.  Something  of  it  will  not 
be  indiscernible  even  in  the  summary  of  his 
past  acquisitions,  which  with  a pardonable 
e.xultation  he  now  sent  me. 

“We  had  great  difficulty  in  getting  our 
American  accounts  squared  to  the  point  of  as- 
certaining what  Dolby’s  commission  amounted 
to  in  English  money.  After  all,  we  were  obliged 
to  call  in  the  aid  of  a money-changer,  to  deter- 
mine what  he  should  pay  as  his  share  of  the 
average  loss  of  conversion  into  gold.  With  this 
deduction  made,  I think  his  commission  (I  have 
not  the  figures  at  hand)  was  ;^2,888  ; Ticknor 
and  Fields  had  a commission  of  ;^i,ooo,  be- 
sides 5 per  cent,  on  all  Boston  receipts.  The 
expenses  in  America  to  the  day  of  our  sailing 
were  38,948  dollars; — roughly  39,000  dollars, 
or  ^13,000.  The  preliminary  expenses  were 
;^6i4.  The  average  price  of  gold  was  nearly 
40  per  cent,  and  yet  my  profit  was  within  a 
hundred  or  so  of  ^20,000.  Supposing  me  to 
have  got  through  the  present  engagement  in 
good  health,  I shall  have  made  by  the  Readings, 
in  two  years,  ;^33,ooo  : that  is  to  say,  ;^i3,ooo 
received  from  the  Chappells,  and  ^20,000  from 
America.  What  I had  made  by  them  before,  I 
could  only  ascertain  by  a long  examination  of 
Coutts’s  books.  I should  say,  certainly  not  less 
than  ;^io,ooo;  for  I remember  that  I made 
half  that  money  in  the  first  town  and  country 
campaign  with  poor  Arthur  Smith.  These 
figures  are  of  course  between  ourselves  ; but 
don’t  you  think  them  rather  remarkable  ? The 
Chappell  bargain  began  with  ^50  a night  and 
everything  paid ; then  became  ^60  ; and  now 
rises  to 

The  last  readings  were  appointed  to  begin 
with  October;  and  at  the  request  of  an  old 
friend,  Chauncy  Hare  Townshend,  who  died 
during  his  absence  in  the  States,  he  had  ac- 
cepted the  trust,  which  occupied  him  some  part 
of  the  summer,  of  examining  and  selecting  for 
publication  a bequest  of  some  papers  on  mat- 
ters of  religious  belief,  which  were  issued  in  a 
small  volume  the  following  year.  There  came 
also  in  June  a visit  from  Longfellow  and  his 
daughters,  with  later  summer  visits  from  the 
Eliot  Nortons;  and  at  the  arrival  of  friends 
whom  he  loved  and  honoured  as  he  did  these, 
from  the  great  country  to  which  he  owed  so 
much,  infinite  were  the  rejoicings  of  Gadshill. 
Nothing  could  quench  his  old  spirit  in  this  way. 
But,  in  the  intervals  of  my  official  work,  I saw 


him  frequently  that  summer,  and  never  without 
the  impression  that  America  had  told  heavily 
upon  him.  There  was  manifest  abatement  of 
his  natural  force,  the  elasticity  of  bearing  was 
impaired,  and  the  wonderful  brightness  of  eye 
was  dimmed  at  times.  One  day,  too,  as  he 
walked  from  his  office  with  Miss  Hogarth  to 
dine  at  our  house,  he  could  read  only  the 
halves  of  the  letters  over  the  shop  doors  that 
were  on  his  right  as  he  looked.  He  attributed 
it  to  medicine.  It  was  an  additional  unfavour- 
able symptom  that  his  right  foot  had  become 
affected  as  well  as  the  left,  though  not  to  any- 
thing like  the  same  extent,  during  the  journey 
from  the  Canada  frontier  to  Boston.  But  all 
this  disappeared  upon  any  special  cause  for 
exertion ; and  he  was  never  unprepared  to 
lavish  freely  for  others  the  reserved  strength 
that  should  have  been  kept  for  himself.  This 
indeed  was  the  great  danger,  for  it  dulled  the 
apprehension  of  us  all  to  the  fact  that  absolute 
and  pressing  danger  did  positively  exist. 

He  had  scarcely  begun  these  last  readings 
than  he  was  beset  by  a misgiving,  that,  for  a 
success  large  enough  to  repay  Messrs.  Chappell’s 
liberality,  the  enterprise  would  require  a new 
excitement  to  carry  him  over  the  old  ground ; 
and  it  was  while  engaged  in  Manchester  and 
Liverpool  at  the  outset  of  October  that  this 
announcement  came.  “ I have  made  a short 
reading  of  the  murder  in  Oliver  Twist.  I can- 
not make  up  my  mind,  however,  whether  to  do 
it  or  not.  I have  no  doubt  that  I could  per- 
fectly petrify  an  audience  by  carrying  out  the 
notion  I have  of  the  way  of  rendering  it.  But 
whether  the  impression  would  not  be  so  horrible 
as  to  keep  them  away  another  time,  is  what  I 
cannot  satisfy  myself  upon.  What  do  you 
think?  It  is  in  three  short  parts;  i.  Where 
Fagin  sets  Noah  Claypole  on  to  watch  Nancy. 
2,  The  scene  on  London  Bridge.  3,  Where 
Fagin  rouses  Claypole  from  his  sleep  to  tell  his 
perverted  story  to  Sikes : and  the  Murder,  and 
the  Murderer’s  sense  of  being  haunted.  I have 
adapted  and  cut  about  the  text  with  great  care, 
and  it  is  very  powerful.  I have  to-day  referred 
the  book  and  the  question  to  the  Chappells  as 
so  largely  interested.”  I had  a strong  dislike 
to  this  proposal,  less  perhaps  on  the  ground 
which  ought  to  have  been  taken  of  the  physical 
exertion  it  would  involve,  than  because  such  a 
subject  seemed  to  be  altogether  out  of  the 
province  of  reading ; and  it  was  resolved,  that, 
before  doing  it,  trial  shoukl  be  made  to  a limited 
private  audience  in  St.  James’s  Hall.  The  note 
announcing  this,  from  Liverpool  on  llie  25th  of 
October,  is  for  other  reasons  worth  printing. 


LAS7^  READINGS. 


“ I give  you  earliest  notice  that  tire  Chappells 
suggest  to  me  the  i8th  of  November  ” (the  14th 
was  chosen)  “ for  trial  of  the  Oliver  Twist  mur- 
iler,  when  everything  in  use  for  the  previous 
; (lay’s  reading  can  be  made  available.  I hope 
’ this  may  suit  you?  We  have  been  doing  well 
I here  ; and  how  it  was  arranged,  nobody  knows, 

I but  we  had  ^^410  at  St.  James’s  Hall  last 
I Tuesday,  having  advanced  from  our  previous 

i ;^36o.  The  expenses  are  such,  however,  on 

j the  princely  scale  of  the  Chappells,  that  we 
I never  begin  at  a smaller,  often  at  a larger,  cost 

than  ;^i8o I have  not  been  well,  and 

have  been  heavily  tired.  However,  I have 
little  to  complain  of — nothing,  nothing  ; though, 
like  Mariana,  I am  aweary.  But,  think  of  this. 
If  all  go  well  and  (like  Mr.  Dennis)  I ‘work  off’ 
this  series  triumphantly,  I shall  have  made  of 
these  readings  _;,C28,ooo  in  a year  and  a half.” 
'I'his  did  not  better  reconcile  me  to  what  had 
been  too  clearly  forced  upon  him  by  the  sup- 
posed necessity  of  some  new  excitement  to 
ensure  a triumphant  result ; and  even  the 
])rivate  rehearsal  only  led  to  a painful  corre- 
spondence between  us,  of  which  a few  words 
are  all  that  need  now  be  preserved.  “ We 
might  have  agreed,”  he  wrote,  “ to  differ  about 
it  very  well,  because  we  only  wanted  to  find  out 
the  truth  if  we  could,  and  because  it  was  quite 
understood  that  I wanted  to  leave  behind  me 
the  recollection  of  something  very  passionate 
and  dramatic,  done  with  simple  means,  if  the 
art  would  justify  the  theme.”  Apart  from  mere 
personal  considerations,  the  whole  question  lay 
in  these  last  words.  It  was  impossible  for  me 
to  admit  that  the  effect  to  be  produced  was 
legitimate,  or  such  as  it  was  desirable  to  asso- 
ciate with  the  recollection  of  his  readings. 

Mention  should  not  be  omitted  of  two  sorrows 
which  affected  him  at  this  time.  At  the  close 
of  the  month  before  the  readings  began,  his 
youngest  son  went  forth  from  home  to  join  an 
elder  brother  in  Australia.  “ These  partings  are 
hard  hard  things  ” (26th  of  September),  “ but  they 
are  the  lot  of  us  all,  and  might  have  to  be  done 
without  means  or  influence,  and  then  would  be 
far  harder.  God  bless  him  ! ” Hardly  a month 
later,  the  last  of  his  surviving  brothers,  Frederick, 
the  next  to  himself,  died  at  Darlington.  “ He 
had  been  tended  ” (24th  of  October),  “with  the 
greatest  care  and  affection  by  some  local  friends. 
It  was  a wasted  life,  but  God  forbid  that  one 
should  be  hard  upon  it,  or  upon  anything  in  this 
world  that  is  not  deliberately  and  coldly  wrong.” 
Before  October  closed  the  renewal  of  his 
labour  had  begun  to  tell  upon  him.  He  wrote 
to  his  sister-in-law  on  the  29th  of  sickness  and 
Life  of  Charles  Dickens,  27. 


405 


sleepless  nights,  and  of  its  having  become  neces- 
sary, when  he  had  to  read,  that  he  should  lie  on 
the  sofa  all  day.  After  arrival  at  Edinburgh  in 
December,  he  had  been  making  a calculation 
that  the  railway  travelling  over  such  a distance 
involved  something  more  than  thirty  thousand 
shocks  to  the  nerves ; but  he  went  on  to  Christ- 
mas, alternating  these  far-off  places  with  nights 
regularly  intervening  in  London,  without  much 
more  complaint  than  of  an  inability  to  sleep. 
Trade  reverses  at  Glasgow  had  checked  the 
success  there,  but  Edinburgh  made  compensa- 
tion. “The  affectionate  regard  of  the  people 
exceeds  all  bounds  and  is  shown  in  every  way. 
The  audiences  do  everything  but  embrace  me, 
and  take  as  much  pains  with  the  readings  as  I 

do The  keeper  of  the  Edinburgh  hall,  a 

fine  old  soldier,  presented  me  on  Friday  night 
with  the  most  superb  red  camellia  for  my  button- 
hole that  ever  was  seen.  Nobody  can  imagine 
how  he  came  by  it,  as  the  florists  had  had  a con- 
siderable demand  for  that  colour,  from  ladies  in 
the  stalls,  and  could  get  no  such  thing.” 

The  second  portion  of  the  enterprise  opened 
with  the  New  Year;  and  the  Sikes  and  Naticy 
scenes,  everywhere  his  prominent  subject,  exacted 
the  most  terrible  physical  exertion  from  him. 
In  January  he  was  at  Clifton,  where  he  had 
given,  he  told  his  sister-in-law,  “ by  far  the  best 
Murder  yet  done while  at  the  same  date  he 
wrote  to  his  daughter  ; “ At  Clifton  on  Monday 
night  we  had  a contagion  of  fainting;  and  yet 
the  place  was  not  hot.  I should  think  we  had 
from  a dozen  to  twenty  ladies  taken  out  stiff  and 
rigid,  at  various  times  ! It  became  quite  ridi- 
culous.” He  was  afterwards  at  Cheltenham. 
“ Macready  is  of  opinion  that  the  Murder  is  two 
Macbeths.  He  declares  that  he  heard  every 
word  of  the  reading,  but  I doubt  it.  Alas  ! he 
is  sadly  infirm.”  On  the  27th  he  wrote  to  his 
daughter  from  Torquay  that  the  place  into  which 
they  had  put  him  to  read,  and  where  a pantomime 
had  been  played  the  night  before,  was  some- 
thing between  a Methodist  chapel,  a theatre,  a 
circus,  a riding-school,  and  a cow-house.  That 
day  he  wrote  to  me  from  Bath ; “ Landor’s 
ghost  goes  along  the  silent  streets  here  before 
me The  place  looks  to  me  like  a ceme- 

tery which  the  Dead  have  succeeded  in  rising 
and  taking.  Having  built  streets  of  their  old 
gravestones,  they  wander  about  scantly  trying 
to  ‘ look  alive.’  A dead  failure.” 

In  the  second  week  of  February  he  was  in 
London,  under  engagement  to  return  to  Scotland 
(which  he  had  just  left)  after  the  usual  weekly 
reading  at  St.  James’s  Hall,  when  there  was  a 
sudden  interruption.  “ My  foot  has  turned  lame 

435 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


406 


again  ! ” was  his  announcement  to  me  on  the 
15th,  followed  next  day  by  this  letter.  “ Henry 
Thompson  will  not  let  me  read  to-night,  and 
will  not  let  me  go  to  Scotland  to-morrow. 
Tremendous  house  here,  and  also  in  Edinburgh, 
j Here  is  the  certificate  he  drew  up  for  himself  and 
I Beard  to  sign.  ‘We  the  undersigned  hereby 

I certify  that  Mr.  C.  D.  is  suffering  from  inflam- 

I mation  of  the  foot  (caused  by  over-exertion),  and 
i that  we  have  forbidden  his  appearance  on  the 
j platform  this  evening,  as  he  must  keep  his  room 
for  a day  or  two.’  I have  sent  up  to  the  Great 
Western  Hotel  for  apartments,  and,  if  I can  get 
them,  shall  move  there  this  evening.  Heaven 
j knows  what  engagements  this  may  involve  in 
April  ! It  throws  us  all  back,  and  will  cost  me 
some  five  hundred  pounds.” 

A few  days’  rest  again  brought  so  much  relief, 
that,  against  the  urgent  entreaties  of  members  of 
his  family  as  well  as  other  friends,  he  was  in  the 
railway  carriage  bound  for  Edinburgh  on  the 
morning  of  the  20th  of  February,  accompanied 
by  Mr.  Chappell  himself.  “ I came  down  lazily 
on  a sofa,”  he  wrote  to  me  from  Edinburgh  next 
day,  “ hardly  changing  my  position  the  whole 
way.  The  railway  authorities  had  done  all  sorts 
of  things,  and  I was  more  comfortable  than  on 
the  sofa  at  the  hotel.  The  foot  gave  me  no 
uneasiness,  and  has  been  quiet  and  steady  all 
night.”  He  was  nevertheless  under  the  neces- 
sity, two  days  later,  of  consulting  Mr.  Syme ; 
and  he  told  his  daughter  that  this  great  autho- 
rity had  warned  him  against  over-fatigue  in  the 
readings,  and  given  him  some  slight  remedies, 
but  otherwise  reported  him  in  “just  perfectly 
splendid  condition.”  With  care  he  thought  the 
pain  might  be  got  rid  of.  “ AVhat  made  Thomp- 
son think  it  was  gout  ? he  said  often,  and  seemed 
to  take  that  opinion  extremely  ill.”  Again  be- 
fore leaving  Scotland  he  saw  Mr.  Syme,  and 
wrote  to  me  on  the  second  of  March  of  the 
indignation  with  which  he  again  treated  the  gout 
diagnosis,  declaring  the  disorder  to  be  an  affec- 
tion of  the  delicate  nerves  and  muscles  originat- 
ing in  cold.  “ I told  him  that  it  had  shown 
itself  in  America  in  the  other  foot  as  well. 
‘ Now'  I’ll  just  swear,’  said  he,  ‘ that  beyond  the 
I I fatigue  of  the  readings  you’d  been  tramping  in 
the  snow  within  tw'o  or  three  days.’  I certainly 
had.  ‘Well,’  said  he  triumphantly,  ‘and  how 
did  it  first  begin  ? In  the  snow.  Gout  ? Bah  ! 
— Thompson  knew  no  other  name  for  it,  and 
just  called  it  gout.  Bah!’”  Yet  the  famous 
pupil.  Sir  Henry  Thompson,  went  certainly 
nearer  the  mark  than  the  distinguished  master, 
Mr.  Syme,  in  giving  to  this  distressing  trouble  a 
more  than  local  character. 


The  whole  of  that  March  month  he  w'ent  on 
with  the  scenes  from  Oliver  Twist.  “ The  foot 
goes  famously,”  he  wrote  to  his  daughter.  “ I 
feel  the  fatigue  in  it  (four  Murders  in  one  w'eek) 
but  not  overmuch.  It  merely  aches  at  night; 
and  so  does  the  other,  sympathetically  I sup- 
pose.” At  Hull  on  the  8th  he  heard  of  the 
death  of  the  old  and  dear  friend,  Emerson  Ten- 
nent,  to  w'hom  he  had  inscribed  his  last  book  ; 
and  on  the  morning  of  the  12th  I met  him  at 
the  funeral.  He  had  read  the  Oliver  Twist 
scenes  the  night  before  at  York;  had  just  been 
able  to  get  to  the  express  train,  after  shortening 
the  pauses  in  the  reading,  by  a violent  rush 
when  it  was  over;  and  had  travelled  through 
the  night.  He  appeared  to  me  “ dazed  ” and 
worn.  No  man  could  w'ell  look  more  so  than 
he  did,  that  sorrowful  morning. 

The  end  was  near.  A public  dinner,  which 
will  have  mention  on  a later  page,  had  been 
given  him  in  Liverpool  on  the  loth  of  April, 
with  Lord  Dufferin  in  the  chair,  and  a reading 
w'as  due  from  him  in  Preston  on  the  22nd  of 
that  month.  But  on  Sunday  the  i8th  we  had  ill 
report  of  him  from  Chester,  and  on  the  21st  he 
wrote  from  Blackpool  to  his  sister-in-law.  “ I 
have  come  to  this  Sea-Beach  Hotel  (charming) 
for  a day’s  rest.  I am  much  better  than  I was 
on  Sunday  ; but  shall  want  careful  looking  to, 
to  get  through  the  readings.  My  weakness  and 
deadness  are  all  on  the  left  side ; and  if  I don’t 
look  at  anything  I try  to  touch  W'ith  my  left 
hand,  I don’t  know  where  it  is.  I am  in  (secret) 
consultation  with  Frank  Beard,  who  says  that  I 
have  given  him  indisputable  evidences  of  over- 
work which  he  could  wish  to  treat  immediately ; 
and  so  I have  telegraphed  for  him.  I have  had 
a delicious  walk  by  the  sea  to-day,  and  I sleep 
soundl}',  and  have  picked  up  amazingly  in  api)e- 
tite.  My  foot  is  greatly  better  too,  and  I wear 
my  own  boot.”  Next  day  was  apiminted  for  the 
reading  at  Preston ; and  from  that  place  he 
wrote  to  me,  while  waiting  the  arrival  of  Mr. 
Beard.  “ Don’t  say  anything  about  it,  but  the 
tremendously  severe  nature  of  this  work  is  a 
little  shaking  me.  At  Chester  last  Sunday  I 
found  myself  extremely  giddy,  and  extremely 
uncertain  of  my  sense  of  touch,  both  in  the  left 
leg  and  the  left  hands  and  arms.  I Iiad  been 
taking  some  slight  medicine  of  Beard’s  ; and 
immediately  wrote  to  him  describing  exactly 
what  I felt,  and  asking  him  whether  those  feel- 
ings could  be  referable  to  the  medicine?  He 
promptly  replied : ‘ 'Phere  can  be  no  mistaking 
them  from  your  exact  account.  The  medicine 
cannot  possibly  have  caused  tliem.  1 recognise 
indisputable  symptoms  of  overwork,  and  1 wish 


ZAS2^  HEADINGS. 


to  take  3’ou  in  hand  without  any  loss  of  time.’ 
They  have  greatly  modified  since,  but  he  is 
coming  down  here  this  afternoon.  To-morrow 
j night  at  Warrington  I shall  have  but  25  more 
I nights  to  work  through.  If  he  can  coach  me  up 
1 1 for  them,  1 do  not  doubt  that  I shall  get  all 
right  again — as  I did  when  I became  free  in 
America.  The  foot  has  given  me  very  little 
trouble.  Yet  it  is  remarkable  that  it  is  ihe  left 
j foot  too;  and  that  I told  Henry  Thompson  (be- 
! fore  I saw  his  old  master  Syme)  that  I had  an 
inward  conviction  that  whatever  it  was,  it  was 
' not  gout.  I also  told  Beard,  a year  after  the 
I Staplehurst  accident,  that  I was  certain  that  my 
heart  had  been  fluttered,  and  wanted  a little 
\ helping.  This  the  stethoscope  confirmed ; and 
j considering  the  immense  exertion  I am  under- 
j going,  and  the  constant  jarring  of  express  trains, 
j the  case  seems  to  me  quite  intelligible.  Don’t 
say  anything  in  the  Gad’s  direction  about  my 
! I being  a little  out  of  sorts.  I have  broached  the 
j j matter  of  course  ; but  very  lightly.  Indeed  there 
; I is  no  reason  for  broaching  it  otherwise.” 

I ! Even  to  the  close  of  that  letter  he  had  buoyed 
^ ; himself  up  with  the  hope  that  he  might  yet  be 
I j “ coached  ” and  that  the  readings  need  not  be 
I j discontinued.  But  Mr.  Beard  stopped  them  at 
; 1 once,  and  brought  his  patient  to  London.  On 
I Friday  morning  the  23rd,  the  same  envelope 
* brought  me  a note  from  himself  to  say  that  he 
; was  well  enough,  but  tired ; in  perfectly  good 
! I spirits,  not  at  all  uneasy,  and  writing  this  him- 
i I self  that  I should  have  it  under  his  own  hand ; 
' ! with  a note  from  his  eldest  son  to  say  that  his 
father  appeared  to  him  to  be  very  ill,  and  that 
a consultation  had  been  appointed  with  Sir 
Thomas  Watson.  The  statement  of  that  dis- 
tinguished physician,  sent  to  myself  in  J une  1872, 
completes  for  the  present  the  sorrowful  narrative. 

“ It  was,  I think,  on  the  23rd  of  April  1869 
that  I was  asked  to  see  Charles  Dickens,  in 
consultation  with  Mr.  Carr  Beard.  After  I got 
home  I jotted  down,  from  their  joint  account, 
what  follows. 

“ After  unusual  irritability,  C.  D.  found  him- 
self, last  Saturday  or  Sunday,  giddy,  with  a 
I tendency  to  go  backwards,  and  to  turn  round. 

I Afterwards,  desiring  to  put  something  on  a small 
table,  he  pushed  it  and  the  table  forwards, 
undesignedly.  He  had  some  odd  feeling  of 
insecurity  about  his  left  leg,  as  if  there  was 
something  unnatural  about  his  heel ; but  he 
could  lift,  and  he  did  not  drag,  his  leg.  Also 
he  spoke  of  some  strangeness  of  his  left  hand 
and  arm ; missed  the  spot  on  which  he  wished 
to  lay  that  hand,  unless  he  carefully  looked  at 
it  j felt  an  unreadiness  to  lift  his  hands  towards 


407 


his  head,  especially  his  left  hand — when,  for 
instance,  he  was  brusliing  his  hair. 

“ He  had  written  thus  to  Mr.  Carr  Beard. 

“ ‘ Is  it  possible  that  anything  in  my  medicine 
can  have  made  me  extremely  giddy,  extrem.ely 
uncertain  of  my  footing,  especially  on  the  left 
side,  and  extremely  indisposed  to  raise  my 
hands  to  my  head.  These  symptoms  made  me 
very  uncomfortable  on  Saturday  (qy.  Sunday  ?) 

! night,  and  all  yesterday,  &c.’ 

“ The  state  thus  described  showed  plainly 
that  C.  D.  had  been  on  the  brink  of  an  attack 
of  paralysis  of  his  left  side,  and  possibly  of 
apoplexy.  It  was,  no  doubt,  the  result  of  ex- 
treme hurry,  overwork,  and  excitement,  inci- 
dental to  his  Readings. 

On  hearing  from  him  Mr.  Carr  Beard  had 
gone  at  once  to  Preston,  or  Blackburn  (I  am 
not  sure  which),  had  forbidden  his  reading  that 
same  evening,  and  had  brought  him  to  Lon- 
don. 

“ When  I saw  him  he  appeared  to  be  well. 
His  mind  was  unclouded,  his  pulse  quiet.  His 
heart  was  beating  with  some  slight  excess  of  the 
natural  impulse.  He  told  me  he  had  of  late 
sometimes,  but  rarely,  lost  or  misused  a word ; 
that  he  forgot  names,  and  numbers,  but  had 
always  done  that ; and  he  promised  implicit 
obedience  to  our  injunctions. 

“ We  gave  him  the  following  certificate. 

“ ‘ The  undersigned  certify  that  Mr.  Charles 
Dickens  has  been  seriously  unwell,  through 
great  exhaustion  and  fatigue  of  body  and  mind 
consequent  upon  his  public  Readings  and  long 
and  frequent  railway  journeys.  In  our  judg- 
ment Mr.  Dickens  will  not  be  able  with  safety 
to  himself  to  resume  his  Readings  for  several 
months  to  come. 

“ ‘ Thos.  Watson,  M.D. 

“■’F.  Carr  Beard.’ 

“ However,  after  some  weeks,  he  expressed  a 
wish  for  my  sanction  to  his  endeavours  to  re- 
deem, in  a careful  and  moderate  way,  some  of 
the  reading  engagements  to  which  he  had  been 
pledged  before  those  threatenings  of  brain-mis- 
chief in  the  North  of  England. 

“As  he  had  continued  uniformly  to  seem  and 
to  feel  perfectly  well,  I did  not  think  myself 
warranted  to  refuse  that  sanction  : and  in  writing 
to  enforce  great  caution  in  the  trials,  I expressed 
some  apprehension  that  he  might  fancy  we  had 
been  too  peremptory  in  our  injunctions  of  mental 
and  bodily  repose  in  April;  and  I quoted  the 
following  remark,  which  occurs  somewhere  in 
one  of  Captain  Cook’s  voyages.  ‘ Preventive 
measures  are  always  invidious,  for  when  most 


400 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICICENS. 


successful,  the  necessity  for  them  is  the  least 
apparent.’ 

“ I mention  this  to  explain  the  letter  which  I 
send  herewith,  and  which  I must  beg  you  to 
return  to  me,  as  a precious  remembrance  of  the 
writer  with  whom  I had  long  enjoyed  very 
friendly  and  much  valued  relations. 

“ 1 scarcely  need  say  that  if  what  I have  now 
written,  can,  in  a?iy  way,  be  of  use  to  you,  it  is 
entirely  at  your  service  and  disposal — nor  need 
I say  with  how  much  interest  I have  read  the 
first  volume  of  your  late  friend’s  Life.  I cannot 
help  regretting  that  a great  pressure  of  profes- 
sional work  at  the  time,  prevented  my  making  a 
fuller  record  of  a case  so  interesting.” 

The  twelve  readings  to  which  Sir  Thomas 
Watson  consented,  with  the  condition  that  rail- 
way travel  was  not  to  accompany  them,  were 
farther  to  be  delayed  until  the  opening  months 
of  1870.  They  were  an  offering  from  Dickens 
by  way  of  small  compensation  to  Messrs.  Chap- 
pell for  the  breakdown  of  the  enterprise  on  which 
they  had  staked  so  much.  But  here  practically 
he  finished  his  career  as  a public  reader,  and 
what  remains  will  come  with  the  sad  winding-up 
of  the  story.  One  effort  only  intervened,  by 
which  he  hoped  to  get  happily  back  to  his  old 
pursuits ; but  to  this,  as  to  that  which  preceded 
it,  sterner  Fate  said  also  No,  and  his  Last  Book, 
like  his  Last  Readings,  prematurely  closed. 


II. 


LAST  BOOK. 

1869 — 1870. 

HE  last  book  undertaken  by  Dickens 
was  to  be  published  in  illustrated 
monthly  numbers,  of  the  old  form, 
but  to  close  with  the  twelfth.'"^’  It 
closed,  unfinished,  with  the  sixth 
number,  which  was  itself  underwritten  by 
two  pages. 

His  first  fancy  for  the  tale  was  expressed 
in  a letter  in  the  middle  of  July.  “ What  should 

* In  drawing  the  agreement  for  the  publication,  Mr. 
Ouvry  had,  by  Dickens’s  wish,  inserted  a clause  thought 
to  be  altogether  needless,  but  found  to  be  sadly  pertinent. 
It  was  the  first  time  such  a clause  had  been  inserted  in 
one  of  his  agreements.  “ That  if  the  said  Charles 
Dickens  shall  die  during  the  composition  of  the  said 
work  of  the  Mystery  of  Edwin  Drnod,  or  shall  otherwise 
become  incapable  of  completing  the  said  work  for  pub- 
lication in  twelve  monthly  numbers  as  agreed,  it  shall  be 
referred  to  John  Forster,  Esq,,  one  of  Her  Majesty’s 
Commissioners  in  Lunacy,  or  in  the  case  of  his  death. 


you  think  of  the  idea  of  a story  beginning  in  this 
way  ? — Two  people,  boy  and  girl,  or  very  young, 
going  apart  from  one  another,  pledged  to  be 
married  after  many  years — at  the  end  of  the 
book.  The  interest  to  arise  out  of  the  tracing 
of  their  separate  ways,  and  the  impossibility  of 
telling  what  will  be  done  with  that  impending 
fate.”  This  was  laid  aside  j but  it  left  a marked 
trace  on  the  story  as  afterwards  designed,  in  the 
position  of  Edwin  Drood  and  his  betrothed. 

I first  heard  of  the  later  design  in  a letter 
dated  “ Friday  the  6th  of  August  1869,”  in 
which  after  speaking,  with  the  usual  unstinted 
praise  he  bestowed  always  on  what  moved  him 
in  others,  of  a little  tale  he  had  received  for  his 
journal,  he  spoke  of  the  change  that  had  occurred 
to  him  for  the  new  tale  by  himself.  “ I laid 
aside  the  fancy  I told  you  of,  and  have  a very 
curious  and  new  idea  for  my  new  story.  Not  a 
communicable  idea  (or  the  interest  of  the  book 
would  be  gone),  but  a very  strong  one,  though 
difficult  to  work.”  The  story,  I learnt  imme- 
diately afterward,  ivas  to  be  that  of  the  murder 
of  a nephew  by  his  uncle;  the  originality  of 
which  was  to  consist  in  the  review  of  the  mur- 
derer’s career  by  himself  at  the  close,  when  its 
temptations  were  to  be  dwelt  upon  as  if,  not  he 
the  culprit,  but  some  other  man,  were  the 
tempted.  The  last  chapters  were  to  be  written 
in  the  condemned  cell,  to  which  his  wickedness, 
all  elaborately  elicited  from  him  as  if  told  of 
another,  had  brought  him.  Discovery  by  the 
murderer  of  the  utter  needlessness  of  the  murder 
for  its  object,  was  to  follow  hard  upon  commis- 
sion of  the  deed  ; but  all  discovery  of  the  murder 
was  to  be  baffled  till  towards  the  close,  when, 
by  means  of  a gold  ring  which  had  resisted  the 
corrosive  effects  of  the  lime  into  which  he  had 

incapacity,  or  refusal  to  act,  then  to  such  person  as  shall 
be  named  by  Her  hlajesty’s  Attorney-General  for  the 
time  being,  to  determine  the  amount  Mdiich  shall  be  re- 
paid by  the  said  Charles  Dickens,  his  executors  or  ad- 
ministrators, to  the  said  Frederic  Chapman  as  a fair- 
• compensation  for  so  much  of  the  said  work  as  shall  not 
have  been  completed  for  publication.”  The  sum  to  be 
paid  at  once  for  25,000  copies  was  ^7,500 ; publisher 
and  author  sharing  equally  in  the  profit  of  all  sales  be- 
yond that  impression ; and  the  number  reached,  while 
the  author  yet  lived,  was  50,000.  The  sum  paid  for 
early  sheets  to  America  was  _,^i000;  and  Baron  Tauch- 
nitz  paid  liberally,  as  he  always  did,  for  his  Leipzig  rc- 
l>rint.  “All  Mr.  Dickens’s  works,”  M.  Tauchnitz  writes 
to  me,  “ have  been  published  under  agreement  by  me. 
My  intercourse  with  him  lasted  nearly  twenty-seven 
years.  The  first  of  his  letters  dates  in  October  1843, 
and  his  last  at  the  close  of  March,  1870.  Our  long  rela- 
tions were  not  only  never  troubled  by  the  least  disagree- 
ment, but  were  the  occasion  of  most  hearty  personal 
feeling  ; and  I shall  never  lose  the  sense  of  his  kind  and 
friendly  nature.  On  my  asking  him  his  terms  for  Edwin 
Drood,  he  replied,  ‘ Your  terms  shall  be  mine.’  ” 


LAST 


thrown  the  body,  not  only  the  person  murdered 
was  to  be  identified  but  the  locality  of  the  crime 
and  the  man  who  committed  it.  So  much  was 
told  to  me  before  any  of  the  book  w'as  written ; 
and  it  will  be  recollected  that  the  ring,  taken  by 
Drood  to  be  given  to  his  betrothed  only  if  their 
■engagement  went  on,  was  brought  away  with 
ihim  from  their  last  interview'.  Rosa  was  to 
marry  Tartar,  and  Crisparkle  the  sister  of  Land- 
less, wdio  was  himself,  I think,  to  have  perished 
in  assisting  Tartar  finally  to  unmask  and  seize 
the  murderer. 

Nothing  had  been  written,  however,  of  the 
main  parts  of  the  design  excepting  what  is  found 
in  the  published  numbers ; there  was  no  hint  or 
preparation  for  the  sequel  in  any  notes  of  chap- 
ters in  advance ; and  there  remained  not  even 
what  he  had  himself  so  sadly  written  of  the  book 
by  Thackeray  also  interrupted  by  death.  The 
evidence  of  matured  designs  never  to  be  accom- 
plished, intentions  planned  never  to  be  executed, 
roads  of  thought  marked  out  never  to  be  tra- 
versed, goals  shining  in  the  distance  never  to  be 
reached,  was  wanting  here.  It  was  all  a blank. 
Enough  had  been  completed  nevertheless  to  give 
promise  of  a much  greater  book  than  its  im- 
mediate predecessor.  “ I hope  his  book  is 
finished,”  wrote  Longfellow  when  the  news  of  his 
death  was  flashed  to  America.  “ It  is  certainly 
one  of  his  most  beautiful  works,  if  not  the  most 
beautiful  of  all.  It  w'ould  be  too  sad  to  think 
the  pen  had  fallen  from  his  hand,  and  left  it 
incomplete.”  Some  of  its  characters  are  touched 
with  subtlety,  and  in  its  descriptions  his  imagi- 
native pow'er  was  at  its  best.  Not  a line  w'as 
wanting  to  the  reality,  in  the  most  minute  local 
detail,  of  places  the  most  widely  contrasted; 
and  we  saw  with  equal  vividness  the  lazy  cathe- 
dral towm  and  the  lurid  opium-eater’s  den. 
Something  like  the  old  lightness  and  buoyancy 
of  animal  spirits  gave  a new  freshness  to  the 
humour ; the  scenes  of  the  child-heroine  and  her 
luckless  betrothed  had  both  novelty  and  nicety 
of  character  in  them ; and  Mr.  Grewgious  in 
chambers  with  his  clerk  and  the  two  waiters,  the 
conceited  fool  Sapsea,  and  the  blustering  philan- 
thropist Honeythunder,  were  first-rate  comedy. 
Miss  Twinkleton  was  of  the  family  of  Miss  La 
Creevy ; and  the  lodging-house  keeper.  Miss 
Billickin,  though  she  gave  Miss  Twinkleton  but 
a sorry  account  of  her  blood,  had  that  of  Mrs. 
Todgers  in  her  veins.  “ I was  put  in  early  life 
to  a very  genteel  boarding-school,  the  mistress 
being  no  less  a lady  than  yourself,  of  about  your 
own  age,  or  it  may  be  some  years  younger,  and 
a poorness  of  blood  flowed  from  the  table 
which  has  run  through  my  life.”  Was  ever 


BOOIv.  409 


anything  better  said  of  a school-fare  of  starved 
gentility  ? 

The  last  page  of  Edwin  Drood  was  written  in 
the  Chalet  in  the  afternoon  of  his  last  day  of 
consciousness  ; and  I have  thought  there  might 
be  some  interest  in  a facsimile  of  the  greater 
part  of  this  final  page  of  manuscript  that  ever 
came  from  his  hand,  at  which  he  had  worked 
unusually  late  in  order  to  finish  the  chapter.  It 
has  very  much  the  character,  in  its  excessive  care 
of  correction  and  interlineation,  of  all  his  later 
manuscripts  ; and  in  order  that  comparison  may 
be  made  with  his  earlier  and  easier  method,  I 
place  beside  it  a portion  of  a page  of  the  original 
of  Oliva'  Twist.  His  greater  pains  and  elabora-  ' 
tion  of  writing,  it  may  be  mentioned,  became 
first  very  obvious  in  the  later  parts  of  Martm 
Chiizzlewit ; but  not  the  least  remarkable  feature 
in  all  his  manuscripts,  is  the  accuracy  with  which 
the  portions  of  each  representing  the  several 
numbers  are  e.xactly  adjusted  to  the  space  the 
printer  has  to  fill.  Whether  without  erasure  or 
so  interlined  as  to  be  illegible,  nothing  is  want- 
ing, and  there  is  nothing  in  excess.  So  assured 
had  the  habit  become,  that  we  have  seen  him 
remarking  upon  an  instance  the  other  way,  in 
Our  Miitual  Friend.,  as  not  having  happened  to 
him  for  thirty  years.  Certainly  the  exceptions 
had  been  few  and  unimportant ; but  Edwin 
Drood  more  startlingly  showed  him  how  un- 
settled the  habit  he  most  prized  had  become,  in 
the  clashing  of  old  and  new  pursuits.  “ When 
I had  written  ” (22nd  of  December  1869)  “ and, 
as  I thought,  disposed  of  the  first  two  numbers 
of  my  story,  Clowes  informed  me  to  my  horror 
that  they  were,  together,  twelve  printed  pages  too 
short  1 1 ! Consequently  I had  to  transpose  a 
chapter  from  number  two  to  number  one,  and 
remodel  number  two  altogether  ! This  was  the 
more  unlucky,  that  it  came  upon  me  at  the  time 
when  I was  obliged  to  leave  the  book,  in  order  ] 
to  get  up  the  Readings  ” (the  additional  twelve 
for  which  Sir  Thomas  Watson’s  consent  had 
been  obtained) ; “ quite  gone  out  of  my  mind 
since  I left  them  off.  However,  1 turned  to  it 
and  got  it  done,  and  both  numbers  are  now  in 
type.  Charles  Collins  has  designed  an  excellent 
cover.”  It  was  his  wish  that  his  son-in-law 
should  have  illustrated  the  story ; but  this  not 
being  practicable,  upon  an  opinion  expressed  by 
Mr.  Millais  which  the  result  thoroughly  justified, 
choice  was  made  of  Mr.  S.  L.  Fildes. 


This  reference  to  the  last  effort  of  Dickens’s 
genius  had  been  written  as  it  thus  stands,  when 
a discovery  of  some  interest  was  made  by  the 


410 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DLCLCENS. 


writer.  Within  the  leaves  of  one  of  Dickens’s 
other  manuscripts  were  found  some  detached 
slips  of  his  writing,  on  paper  only  half  the  size  of 
that  used  for  the  tale,  so  cramped,  interlined, 
and  blotted  as  to  be  nearly  illegible,  which  on 


close  inspection  proved  to  be  a scene  in  which 
Sapsea  the  auctioneer  is  introduced  as  the  prin- 
cipal figure,  among  a group  of  characters  new  to 
the  story.  The  explanation  of  it  perhaps  is, 
that,  having  become  a little  nervous  about  the 


; ) 


ml 


H 


\? 


■ '■-i-'-i'J  ^ ,1^ 
'■f 


i /yj  : -0  f_\- 


1 i 


vt 


i ^ 'I  • c 


I ' |ib«wb!i 


course  of  the  tale,  from  a fear  that  he  might 
have  plunged  too  soon  into  the  incidents  lead- 
ing on  to  the  catastrophe,  such  as  the  Datchery 
assumption  in  the  fifth  number  (a  misgiving  he 
had  certainly  expressed  to  his  sister-in-law'),  it 


had  occurred  to  him  to  open  some  fresh  veins 
of  character  incidental  to  the  interest,  though 
not  directly  part  of  it,  and  so  to  handle  them  in 
connection  with  Sapsea  as  a little  to  suspeml 
the  final  development  even  while  assisting  to 


LAST  BOOIC: 


strengthen  it.  Before  beginning  any  number  of 
a serial,  he  used,  as  we  have  seen  in  former  in- 
stances, to  plan  briefly  what  he  intended  to  put 
into  it  chapter  by  chapter  ; and  his  first  num- 
ber-plan of  Brood  had  the  following : “ Mr. 
Sapsca.  Old  Tory  Jackass.  Connect  Jasper 


411 


with  him.  (He  will  want  a solemn  donkey  by 
and  by) : ” which  was  effected  by  bringing  to- 
gether both  Durdles  and  Jasper,  for  connection 
with  Sapsea,  in  the  matter  of  the  epitaph  for 
Mrs.  Sapsea’s  tomb.  The  scene  now  discovered 
might  in  this  view  have  been  designed  tp 


strengthen  and  carry  forward  that  element  in 
the  tale ; and  otherwise  it  very  sufficiently  ex- 
presses itself.  It  would  supply  an  answer,  if 
such  were  needed,  to  those  who  have  asserted 
that  the  hopeless  decadence  of  Dickens  as  a 
writer  had  set  in  before  his  death.  Among  the 
lines  last  written  by  him,  these  are  the  very  last 


we  can  ever  hope  to  receive  ; and  they  seem  to 
me  a delightful  specimen  of  the  power  possessed 
by  him  in  his  prime,  and  the  rarest  which  any 
novelist  can  have,  of  revealing  a character  by  a 
touch.  Here  are  a couple  of  people,  Kimber 
and  Peartree,  not  known  to  us  before,  whom 
we  read  off  thoroughly  in  a dozen  words ; and 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


as  to  Sapsea  liimself,  auctioneer  and  mayor  of 
Cloisterham,  we  are  face  to  face  with  what 
before  we  only  dimly  realized,  and  we  see  the 
solemn  jackass,  in  his  business  pulpit,  playing 
off  the  airs  of  Mr.  Dean  in  his  Cathedral  pulpit, 
with  Cloisterham  laughing  at  the  impostor. 

“HOW  MR.  SAPSEA  CEASED  TO  BE  A 
MEMBER  OF  THE  EIGHT  CLUB. 
“told  by  himself. 

“ Wishing  to  take  the  air,  I proceeded  by  a 
circuitous  route  to  the  club,  it  being  our  weekly 
night  of  meeting.  I found  that  we  mustered 
our  full  strength.  We  were  enrolled  under  the 
denomination  of  the  Eight  Club.  We  were 
eight  in  number ; we  met  at  eight  o’clock  dur- 
ing eight  months  of  the  year ; we  played  eight 
games  of  four-handed  cribbage,  at  eightpence 
the  game ; our  frugal  supper  was  composed  of 
eight  rolls,  eight  mutton  chops,  eight  pork 
sausages,  eight  baked  potatoes,  eight  marrow- 
bones, with  eight  toasts,  and  eight  bottles  of 
ale.  There  may,  or  may  not,  be  a certain  har- 
mony of  colour  in  the  ruling  idea  of  this  (to 
adopt  a phrase  of  our  lively  neighbours)  re- 
union. It  was  a little  idea  of  mine. 

“ A somewhat  popular  member  of  the  Eight 
Club,  was  a member  by  the  name  of  Kimber. 
By  profession,  a dancing-master.  A common- 
place, hopeful  sort  of  man,  wholly  destitute  of 
dignity  or  knowledge  of  the  world. 

“As  I entered  the  Club-room,  Kimber  was 
making  the  remark  : ‘ And  he  still  half-believes 
him  to  be  very  high  in  the  Church.’ 

“ In  the  act  of  hanging  up  my  hat  on  the 
eighth  peg  by  the  door,  I caught  Kimber’s 
visual  ray.  He  lowered  it,  and  passed  a remark 
on  the  next  change  of  the  moon.  I did  not 
take  particular  notice  of  this  at  the  moment, 
because  the  world  was  often  pleased  to  be  a 
little  shy  of  ecclesiastical  topics  in  my  presence, 
f’or  I felt  that  I was  picked  out  (though  per- 
haps only  through  a coincidence)  to  a certain 
extent  to  represent  what  I call  our  glorious 
constitution  in  Church  and  State.  The  jihrase 
may  be  objected  to  by  captious  minds ; Ijut  I 
own  to  it  as  mine.  I threw  it  off  in  argument 
some  little  time  back.  I said;  ‘ Our  Glorious 
Constitution  in  Church  and  State.’ 

“ Another  member  of  the  Eight  Club  was 
Peartree ; also  member  of  the  Royal  College  of 
Surgeons.  Mr.  Peartree  is  not  accountable  to 
me  for  his  opinions,  and  I say  no  more  of  them 
here  than  that  he  attends  the  poor  gratis  tvhen- 
ever  they  want  him,  and  is  not  the  ]iarish 
doctor.  Mr.  Peartree  may  justify  it  to  the 


grasp  of  his  mind  thus  to  do  his  republican 
utmost  to  bring  an  appointed  officer  into  con- 
tempt. Suffice  it  that  Mr.  Peartree  can  never 
justify  it  to  the  grasp  of  mine. 

“ Between  Peartree  and  Kimber  there  was  a 
sickly  sort  of  feeble-minded  alliance.  It  came 
under  my  particular  notice  when  I sold  off 
Kimber  by  auction.  (Goods  taken  in  execu- 
tion.) He  was  a widower  in  a white  under- 
waistcoat, and  slight  shoes  with  bows,  and  had 
two  daughters  not  ill-looking.  Indeed  the 
reverse.  Both  daughters  taught  dancing  in 
scholastic  establishments  for  Young  Ladies — 
had  done  so  at  Mrs.  Sapsea’s ; nay.  Twinkle- 
ton’s — and  both,  in  giving  lessons,  presented 
the  unwomanly  spectacle  of  having  little  fiddles 
tucked  under  their  chins.  In-  spite  of  which, 
the  younger  one  might,  if  I am  correctly  in- 
formed— I will  raise  the  veil  so  far  as  to  say  I 
KNOW  she  might — have  soared  for  life  from  this 
degrading  taint,  but  for  having  the  class  of  mind 
allotted  to  what  I call  the  common  herd,  and 
being  so  incredibly  devoid  of  veneration  as  to 
become  painfully  ludicrous. 

“ When  I sold  off  Kimber  without  reserve, 
Peartree  (as  poor  as  he  can  hold  together)  had 
several  prime  household  lots  knocked  down  to 
him.  I am  not  to  be  blinded  ; and  of  course  it 
v/as  as  plain  to  me  what  he  was  going  to  do 
with  them,  as  it  was  that  he  was  a brown  hulk- 
ing sort  of  revolutionary  subject  who  had  been 
in  India  with  the  soldiers,  and  ought  (for  the 
sake  of  society)  to  have  his  neck  broke.  I saw 
the  lots  shortly  afterwards  in  Kimber’s  lodgings 
through  the  window — and  I easily  made  out 
that  there  had  been  a sneaking  pretence  of 
lending  them  till  better  times.  A man  with  a 
smaller  knowledge  of  the  world  than  myself 
might  have  been  led  to  suspect  that  Kimber 
had  held  back  money  from  his  creditors,  and 
fraudulently  bought  the  goods.  But,  besides 
that  I knew  for  certain  he  had  no  money,  I 
knew  tliat  this  would  involve  a species  of  fore- 
thought not  to  be  made  compatible  with  the 
frivolity  of  a caperer,  inoculating  other  people 
with  capering,  for  his  bread. 

“ As  it  was  the  first  time  I had  seen  either  of 
those  two  since  the  sale,  I kept  myself  in  what 
I call  Abeyance.  When  selling  him  up,  I had 
delivered  a few  remarks — shall  I say  a little 
homily  ? — concerning  Kimber,  which  the  world 
did  regard  as  more  than  usually  worth  notice. 

I had  come  up  into  my  ]rulj)it,  it  was  said,  un- 
commonly like — ami  a murmur  of  recognition 
had  repeated  his  (I  will  not  name  whose)  title,  | 

before  I spoke.  I had  then  gone  on  to  say  | 

that  all  present  would  find,  in  the  first  page  ol 


LAST  BOOT'. 


1 the  catalogue  that  was  lying  before  them,  in  the 
I last  paragraph  before  the  first  lot,  the  following 
I words  : ‘ Sold  in  pursuance  of  a writ  of  execu- 
! tion  issued  by  a creditor.’  I had  then  pro- 
I ceeded  to  remind  my  friends,  that  however 
' frivolous,  not  to  say  contemptible,  the  business 
j by  wliich  a man  got  his  goods  together,  still  his 
^ goods  were  as  dear  to  him,  and  as  cheap  to 
I society  (if  sold  without  reserve),  as  though  his 
^ pursuits  had  been  of  a character  that  would 
j bear  serious  contemplation.  I had  then  divided 
: my  text  (if  I may  be  allowed  so  to  call  it)  into 
three  heads  : firstly.  Sold ; secondly.  In  pursu- 
' ance  of  a writ  of  execution  ; thirdly.  Issued  by 
! a creditor ; with  a few  moral  reflections  on 
i each,  and  winding  up  with,  ‘ Now  to  the  first 
j lot  ’ in  a manner  that  was  complimented  when 
! I afterwards  mingled  with  my  hearers. 

' “ So,  not  being  certain  on  what  terms  I and 

Kimber  stood,  I was  grave,  I was  chilling. 

; Kimber,  however,  moving  to  me,  I moved  to 
Kimber.  (I  w'as  the  creditor  who  had  issued 
the  writ.  Not  that  it  matters.) 

“ ‘ I was  alluding,  Mr.  Sapsea,’  said  Kimber, 
‘ to  a stranger  w'ho  entered  into  conversation 
with  me  in  the  street  as  I came  to  the  Club. 
He  had  been  speaking  to  you  just  before,  it 
seemed,  by  the  churchyard  ; and  though  you 
had  told  him  who  you  were,  I could  hardly 
persuade  him  that  you  were  not  high  in  the 
Church.’ 

“ ‘ Idiot  ! ’ said  Peartree. 

“‘Ass!’  said  Kimber. 

“ ‘ Idiot  and  Ass  ! ’ said  the  other  five  mem- 
bers. 

“ ‘ Idiot  and  Ass,  gentlemen,’  I remonstrated, 
looking  around  me,  ‘ are  strong  expressions  to 
apply  to  a young  man  of  good  appearance  and 
address.’  My  generosity  w’as  roused  ; I owm  it. 

“ ‘You'll  admit  that  he  must  be  a Fool,’  said 
Peartree. 

“‘You  can’t  deny  that  he  must  be  a Block- 
head,’ said  Kimber. 

“Their  tone  of  disgust  amounted  to  being 
offensive.  Why  should  the  young  man  be  so 
calumniated  ? What  had  he  done  ? He  had 
only  made  an  innocent  and  natural  mistake.  I 
controlled  my  generous  indignation,  and  said  so. 

“ ‘ Natural  ? ’ repeated  Kimber.  ‘ He’s  a 
Natural ! ’ 

“ The  remaining  six  members  of  the  Eight 
Club  laughed  unanimously.  It  stung  me.  It 
was  a scornful  laugh.  My  anger  was  roused  in 
behalf  of  an  absent,  friendless  stranger.  I rose 
(for  I had  been  sitting  dowm). 

“ ‘ Gentlemen,’  I said  with  dignity,  ‘ I wfill 
not  remain  one  of  this  Club  allowing  oppro- 


brium to  be  cast  on  an  unoffending  person  in 
his  absence.  I will  not  so  violate  what  I call 
the  sacred  rites  of  hospitality.  Gentlemen, 
until  you  know  how  to  behave  yourselves 
better,  I leave  you.  Gentlemen,  until  then  I 
withdraw,  from  this  place  of  meeting,  whatever 
personal  qualifications  I may  have  brought  into 
it.  Gentlemen,  until  then  you  cease  to  be  the 
Eight  Club,  and  must  make  the  best  you  can  of 
becoming  the  Seven.’ 

“I  put  on  my  hat  and  retired.  As  I went 
down  stairs  I distinctly  heard  them  give  a sup- 
pressed cheer.  Such  is  the  power  of  demeanour 
and  knowledge  of  mankind.  I had  forced  it 
out  of  them. 

“ II. 

“ Whom  should  I meet  in  the  street,  within  a 
few  yards  of  the  door  of  the  inn  where  the  Club 
was  held,  but  the  self-same  young  man  whose 
cause  I had  felt  it  my  duty  so  warmly — and  I 
will  add  so  disinterestedly — to  take  up. 

“ ‘ Is  it  Mr.  Sapsea,’  he  said  doubtfully,  ‘ or 
is  it ’ 

“ ‘ It  is  Mr.  Sapsea,’  I replied. 

“ ‘ Pardon  me,  Mr.  Sapsea  ; you  appear  warm, 
sir.’ 

“ ‘ I have  been  warm,’  I said,  ‘and  on  your 
account.’  Having  stated  the  circumstances  at 
some  length  (my  generosity  almost  overpowered 
him),  I asked  him  his  name. 

“ ‘ Mr.  Sapsea,’  he  answered,  looking  down, 
‘ your  penetration  is  so  acute,  your  glance  into 
the  souls  of  your  fellow  men  is  so  penetrating, 
that  if  I was  hardy  enough  to  deny  that  my 
name  is  Poker,  what  would  it  avail  me?’ 

“ I don’t  know  that  I had  quite  exactly  made 
out  to  a fraction  that  his  name  was  Poker,  but 
I daresay  I had  been  pretty  near  doing  it. 

“ ‘ Well,  well,’  said  I,  trying  to  put  him  at  his 
ease  by  nodding  my  head  in  a soothing  way. 

‘ Your  name  is  Poker,  and  there  is  no  harm  in 
being  named  Poker.’ 

“ ‘ Oh  Mr.  Sapsea  ! ’ cried  the  young  man,  in 
a very  well-behaved  manner.  ‘ Bless  you  for 
those  words  I’  He  then,  as  if  ashamed  of  having 
given  way  to  his  feelings,  looked  down  again. 

“ ‘ Come,  Poker,’  said  I,  ‘ let  me  hear  more 
about  you.  Tell  me.  Where  are  you  going  to. 
Poker?  and  where  do  you  come  from?’ 

“ ‘ Ah  Mr.  Sapsea  1 ’ exclaimed  the  young  man. 

‘ Disguise  from  you  is  impossible.  You  know 
already  that  I come  from  somewhere,  and  am 
going  somewhere  else.  If  I was  to  deny  it, 
what  would  it  avail  me  ? ’ 

“ ‘ Then  don’t  deny  it,’  was  my  remark. 


414 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


“ ‘ Or,’  pursued  Poker,  in  a kind  of  de- 
spondent rapture,  ‘ or  if  I was  to  deny  that  I 
came  to  this  town  to  see  and  hear  you  sir,  wliat 
Avould  it  avail  me  ? Or  if  I was  to  deny •’  ” 

The  fragment  ends  there,  and  the  hand  that 
could  alone  have  completed  it  is  at  rest  for  ever. 


Some  personal  characteristics  remain  for  illus- 
tration before  the  end  is  briefly  told. 


III. 


PERSONAL  CHARACTERISTICS. 


1836 — 1870. 

EJECTION  has  been  taken  to  this 
biography  as  likely  to  disappoint  its 
readers  in  not  making  them  “ talk 
to  Dickens  as  Boswell  makes  them 
talk  to  Johnson.”  But  where  will 
the  blame  lie  if  a man  takes  up 
Pickwick  and  is  disappointed  to  find 
that  he  is  not  reading  Rasselas  ? A book 
must  be  judged  for  what  it  aims  to  be,  and  not 
for  what  it  cannot  by  possibility  be.  I suppose 
so  remarkable  an  author  as  Dickens  hardly  ever 
lived  who  carried  so  little  authorship  into  ordi- 
nary social  intercourse.  Potent  as  the  sway  of 
his  writings  was  over  him,  it  expressed  itself  in 
other  ways.  Traces  of  triumphs  of  literary 
labour,  displays  of  conversational  or  other  per- 
sonal predominance,  were  no  part  of  the  in- 
fluence he  exerted  over  friends.  To  them  he 
was  only  the  pleasantest  of  companions,  with 
whom  they  forgot  that  he  had  ever  written  any- 
thing, and  felt  only  the  charm  which  a nature  of 
such  capacity  for  supreme  enjoyment  causes 
every  one  around  it  to  enjoy.  His  talk  was  un- 
affected and  natural,  never  bookish  in  the 
smallest  degree.  He  was  quite  up  to  the  I 
average  of  well-read  men ; but  as  there  was  no  1 
ostentation  of  it  in  his  writing,  so  neither  was 
there  in  his  conversation.  This  was  so  attrac- 
tive because  so  keenly  observant,  and  lighted  up 
with  so  many  touches  of  humorous  fancy  ; but, 
with  every  possible  thing  to  give  relish  to  it, 
there  were  not  many  things  to  bring  away. 

Of  course  a book  must  stand  or  fall  by  its 
contents.  Macaulay  said  very  truly  that  the 
place  of  books  in  tlie  public  estimation  is  fixed, 
not  by  what  is  written  about  them,  but  by  \vhat 
is  written  in  tliem.  I offer  no  complaint  of  any 


remark  made  upon  these  volumes,  but  there  : ; 
have  been  some  misapprehensions.  Though  1 ’ 
Dickens  bore  outwardly  so  little  of  the  impress  ^ j 
of  his  writings,  they  formed  the  whole  of  that 
inner  life  which  essentially  constituted  the  man  : 
and  as  in  this  respect  he  was  actually,  I have 
thought  that  his  biography  should  endeavour  to 
present  him.  The  story  of  his  books,  therefore, 
at  all  stages  of  their  progress,  and  of  the  hopes 
or  designs  connected  with  them,  was  my  first 
care.  With  that  view,  and  to  give  also  to  the 
memoir  what  was  attainable  of  the  value  of  auto- 
biography, letters  to  myself,  such  as  were  never 
addressed  to  any  other  of  his  correspondents, 
and  covering  all  the  important  incidents  in  the  , | 
life  to  be  retraced,  were  used  with  few  excep- 
tions exclusively ; and  though  the  exceptions 
are  much  more  numerous  in  the  later  sections, 
this  general  plan  has  guided  me  to  the  end.  , 
Such  were  my  limits  indeed,  that  half  even  of 
those  letters  had  to  be  put  aside ; and  to  have 
added  all  such  others  as  were  opened  to  me 
would  have  doubled  the  size  of  my  book,  not 
contributed  to  it  a new  fact  of  life  or  character, 
and  altered  materially  its  design.  It  w'ould  have 
been  so  much  lively  illustration  added  to  the  1 
subject,  but  out  of  jrlace  here.  The  purpose 
here  was  to  make  Dickens  the  sole  central 
figure  in  the  scenes  revived,  narrator  as  well  as  | 
principal  actor;  and  only  by  the  means  em- 
ployed could  consistency  or  unity  be  given  to  | 
the  self-revelation,  and  the  picture  made  definite  ' ; 
and  clear.  It  is  the  peculiarity  of  few  men  to  1 
be  to  their  most  intimate  friend  neither  more  | i 
nor  less  than  they  are  to  themselves,  but  this  was  ! 
true  of  Dickens ; and  what  kind  or  quality  of  ! I 
nature  such  intercourse  expressed  in  him,  of 
what  strength,  tenderness,  and  delicacy  sus-  | ; 
ceptible,  of  what  steady  level  warmth,  of  what 
daily  unresting  activity  of  intellect,  of  what  un-  ^ 
broken  continuity  of  kindly  impulse  through  the  ; j 
change  and  vicissitude  of  three-and-thirty  years,  j ' 
the  letters  to  myself  given  in  these  volumes  could  1 
alone  express.  Gathered  from  various  and  differ-  ’ : 
ing  sources,  their  interest  could  not  have  been  as 
the  interest  of  these  ; in  which  everything  com- 
prised in  the  successive  stages  of  a most  attrac-  | 
tive  career  is  written  with  unexampled  care  and 
truthfulness,  and  set  forth  in  definite  pictures  of 
what  he  saw  and  stood  in  the  midst  of,  un- 
blurred by  vagueness  or  reserve.  Of  the  charge 
of  obtruding  myself  to  which  their  imblication  | 
has  exposed  me,  I can  only  say  that  I studied  . 
nothing  so  hard  as  to  suppress  my  own  per-  | 
sonalily,  and  have  to  regret  my  ill  success  ^ , 
where  I su imposed  I had  even  loo  perfectly  sue-  1 ; 
cceded.  But  we  have  all  of  us  frequent  occasion  ' 


PERSONAL  CHAR  A C TER  IS  TICS. 


to  say,  parodying  Mrs.  Peachem’s  remark,  that 
we  are  bitter  bad  judges  of  ourselves. 

The  other  properties  of  these  letters  are  quite 
subordinate  to  this  main  flict  that  the  man  who 
wrote  them  is  thus  perfectly  seen  in  them.  But 
they  do  not  lessen  the  estimate  of  his  genius. 
Admiration  rises  higher  at  the  writer’s  mental 
forces,  who,  putting  so  much  of  himself  into  his 
work  for  the  public,  had  still  so  much  overflowing 
for  such  private  intercourse.  The  sunny  health 
of  nature  in  them  is  manifest ; its  largeness, 
spontaneity,  and  manliness ; but  they  have  also 
that  which  highest  intellects  appreciate  best.  “ I 
have  read  them,”  Lord  Russell  wrote  to  me,  “with 
delight  and  pain.  His  heart,  his  imagination, 
his  qualities  of  painting  what  is  noble,  and  finding 
' ^liamonds  hidden  far  away,  are  greater  here  than 
I even  his  works  convey  to  me.  How  I lament 
] he  was  not  spared  to  us  longer.  I shall  have  a 
I fresh  grief  when  he  dies  in, your  volumes.”  Shal- 
lower people  are  more  apt  to  find  other  things. 

1 If  the  bonhommie  of  a man’s  genius  is  obvious 
to  all  the  .world,  there  are  plenty  of  knowing 
ones  ready  to  take  the  shine  out  of  the  genius, 
to  discover  that  after  all  it  is  not  so  wonderful, 
that  what  is  grave  in  it  wants  depth,  and  the 
humour  has  something  mechanical.  But  it  will 
be  difficult  even  for  these  to  look  over  letters  so 
marvellous  in  the  art  of  reproducing  to  the  sight 
what  has  once  been  seen,  so  natural  and  un- 
studied in  their  wit  and  fun,  and  with  such  a 
constant  well-spring  of  sprightly  runnings  of 
speech  in  them,  point  of  epigram,  ingenuity  of 
quaint  expression,  absolute  freedom  from  every 
touch  of  affectation,  and  to  believe  that  the 
source  of  this  man’s  humour,  or  of  whatever 
gave  wealth  to  his  genius,  was  other  than  habitual, 
unbounded,  and  resistless. 

There  is  another  consideration  of  some  im- 
portance. Sterne  did  not  more  incessantly  fall 
back  from  his  works  upon  himself  than  Dickens 
did,  and  undoubtedly  one  of  the  impressions 
left  by  the  letters  is  that  of  the  intensity  and 
tenacity  with  which  he  recognized,  realized,  con- 
templated, cultivated,  and  thoroughly  enjoyed, 
his  own  individuality  in  even  its  most  trivial 
manifestations.  But  if  any  one  is  led  to  ascribe 
this  to  self-esteem,  to  a narrow  exclusiveness,  or 
to  any  other  invidious  form  of  egotism,  let  him 
correct  the  impression  by  observing  how  Dickens 
bore  himself  amid  the  universal  blazing-up  of 
America,  at  the  beginning  and  at  the  end  of  his 
career.  Of  his  hearty,  undisguised,  and  unmis- 
takeable  enjoyment  of  his  astonishing  and  indeed 
" quite  bewildering  popularity,  there  can  be  as 
little  doubt  as  that  there  is  not  a particle  of 
vanity  in  it,  any  more  than  of  false  modesty  or 


415 


grimace.  While  realizing  fully  the  fact  of  it, 
and  the  worth  of  the  fact,  there  is  not  in  his 
whole  being  a fibre  that  answers  falsely  to  the 
charmer’s  voice.  Few  men  in  the  world,  one 
fancies,  could  have  gone  through  such  grand 
displays  of  fireworks,  not  merely  with  so  mar- 
vellous an  absence  of  what  the  French  call  pose, 
but  unsoiled  by  the  smoke  of  a cracker.  No 
man’s  strong  individuality  was  ever  so  free  from 
conceit. 

Other  personal  incidents  and  habits,  and  espe- 
cially some  matters  ofopinion  of  grave  importance, 
will  help  to  make  his  character  better  known. 
Much  questioning  followed  a brief  former  re- 
ference to  his  religion,  but,  inconsistent  or  illo- 
gical as  the  conduct  described  may  be,  there  is 
nothing  to  correct  in  my  statement  of  it ; and 
to  any  doubt  there  still  may  be  in  regard  to  the 
essentials  of  his  faith,  answer  will  be  afforded 
by  a letter  written  on  the  occasion  of  his  youngest 
boy  leaving  home  in  September  1868  to  join  his 
brother  in  Australia,  than  which  none  worthier 
appears  in  his  story.  “ I write  this  note  to-day 
because  your  going  away  is  much  upon  my  mind, 
and  because  I want  you  to  have  a few  parting 
words  from  me,  to  think  of  now.  and  then  at 
quiet  times.  I need  not  tell  you  that  I love  you 
dearly,  and  am  very,  very  sorry  in  my  heart  to 
part  with  you.  But  this  life  is  half  made  up  of 
partings,  and  these  pains  must  be  borne.  It  is 
my  comfort  and  my  sincere  conviction  that  you 
are  going  to  try  the  life  for  which  you  are  best 
fitted.  I think  its  freedom  and  wildness  more 
suited  to  you  than  any  experiment  in  a study 
or  office  would  have  been  ; and  without  that 
training,  you  could  have  followed  no  other  suit- 
able occupation.  What  you  have  always  wanted 
until  now,  has  been  a set,  steady,  constant  pur- 
pose. I therefore  exhort  you  to  persevere  in  a ^ 
thorough  determination  to  do  whatever  you  have  l 
to  do  as  well  as  you  can  do  it.  I was  not  so  \ 
old  as  you  are  now,  when  I first  had  to  win  my 
food,  and  to  do  it  out  of  this  determination  ; 
and  I have  never  slackened  in  it  since.  Never 
take  a mean  advantage  of  any  one  in  any  trans- 
action, and  never  be  hard  upon  people  who  are 
in  your  power.  Try  to  do  to  others  as  you  would 
have  them  do  to  you,  and  do  not  be  discouraged 
if  they  fail  sometimes.  It  is  much  better  for 
you  that  they  should  fail  in  obeying  the  greatest 
rule  laid  down  by  our  Saviour  than  that  you 
should.  I put  a New  Testament  among  your 
books  for  the  very  same  reasons,  and  with  the 
very  same  hopes,  that  made  me  write  an  easy 
account  of  it  for  you,  when  you  were  a little 
child.  Because  it  is  the  best  book  that  ever 
was,  or  will  be,  known  in  the  world ; and  be- 


4i6  the  life  of  CHARLES  DLCKENS. 

cause  it  teaches  you  the  best  lessons  by  which 
any  human  creature,  who  tries  to  be  truthful  and 
faithful  to  duty,  can  possibly  be  guided.  As 
your  brothers  have  gone  away,  one  by  one,  I 
have  written  to  each  such  words  as  I am  now 
writing  to  you,  and  have  entreated  them  all  to 
guide  themselves  by  this  Book,  putting  aside 
the  interpretations  and  inventions  of  Man.  You 
will  remember  that  you  have  never  at  home 
been  harassed  about  religious  observances,  or 
mere  formalities.  I have  always  been  anxious 
not  to  weary  my  children  with  such  things, 
before  they  are  old  enough  to  form  opinions 
respecting  them.  You  will  therefore  understand 
the  better  that  I now  most  solemnly  impress 
upon  you  the  truth  and  beauty  of  the  Christian 
Religion,  as  it  came  from  Christ  Himself,  and 
the  impossibility  of  your  going  far  wrong  if  you 
humbly  but  heartily  respect  it.  Only  one  thing 
more  on  this  head.  The  more  we  are  in  earnest 
as  to  feeling  it,  the  less  we  are  disposed  to  hold 
forth  about  it.  Never  abandon  the  wholesome 
practice  of  saying  your  own  private  prayers, 
night  and  morning.  I have  never  abandoned  it 
myself,  and  I know  the  comfort  of  it.  I hope 
you  will  always  be  able  to  say  in  after  life,  that 
you  had  a kind  father.  You  cannot  show  your 
affection  for  him  so  well,  or  make  him  so  happy, 
as  by  doing  your  duty.”  They  who  most  inti- 
mately knew  Dickens  will  know  best  that  every 
word  there  is  written  from  his  heart,  and  is 
radiant  with  the  truth  of  his  nature. 

To  the  same  effect,  in  the  leading  matter,  he 
•expressed  himself  twelve  years  before,  and  again 
the  day  before  his  death  ; replying  in  both  cases 
to  correspondents  who  had  addressed  him  as  a 
public  writer.  A clergyman,  the  Rev.  R.  H. 
Davies,  had  been  struck  by  the  hymn  in  the 
Christmas  tale  of  the  Wreck  of  the  Golden  Mary 
{LLouseliold  Words,  1856).  “ I beg  to  thank  you” 
Dickens  answered  (Christmas  Eve,  1856)  “ for 
your  very  acceptable  letter — not  the  less  grati- 
fying to  me  because  I am  myself  the  writer  you 

refer  to There  cannot  be  many  men,  I 

believe,  who  have  a more  humble  veneration  for 
the  New  Testament,  or  a more  profound  con- 
viction of  its  all-sufficiency,  than  I have.  If  I 
am  ever  (as  you  tell  me  I am)  mistaken  on  this 
subject,  it  is  because  1 discountenance  all  ob- 
trusive professions  of  and  tradings  in  religion,  as 
one  of  the  main  causes  why  real  Christianity  has 
been  retarded  in  this  world ; and  because  my 
observation  of  life  induces  me  to  hold  in  Un- 
speakable dread  and  horror,  those  unseemly 
squabbles  about  the  letter  which  drive  the  spirit 
out  of  hundreds  of  thousands.”  In  ]>recisely 
similar  tone,  to  a reader  of  Edwin  Drood  (Mr. 

J.  M.  Makeham),  who  had  pointed  out  to  him 
that  his  employment  as  a figure  of  speech  of  a 
line  from  Holy  Writ  in  his  tenth  chapter  might 
be  subject  to  misconstruction,  he  wrote  from 
Gadshill  on  Wednesday  the  eighth  of  June,  1870. 
“ It  would  be  quite  inconceivable  to  me,  but  for 
your  letter,  that  any  reasonable  reader  could 
possibly  attach  a scriptural  reference  to  that 

passage lam  truly  shocked  to  find  that 

any  reader  can  make  the  mistake.  I have  always 
striven  in  my  writings  to  express  veneration  for 
the  life  and  lessons  of  our  Saviour ; because  I 
feel  it ; and  because  I re-wrote  that  history  for 
my  children — every  one  of  whom  knew  it,  from 
having  it  repeated  to  them,  long  before  they 
could  read,  and  almost  as  soon  as  they  could 
speak.  But  I have  never  made  proclamation  of 
this  from  the  house  tops.” 

A dislike  of  all  display  was  rooted  in  him ; 
and  his  objection  to  posthumous  honours,  illus- 
trated by  the  instructions  in  his  will,  was  very 
strikingly  expressed  two  years  before  his  death, 
when  Mr.  Thomas  Fairbairn  asked  his  help  to  a 
proposed  recognition  of  Rajah  Brooke’s  services 
by  a memorial  in  Westminster  Abbey.  “ I am 
very  strongly  impelled”  (24th  June  1868)  “to 
comply  with  any  request  of  yours.  But  these 
posthumous  honours  of  committee,  subscriptions, 
and  Westminster  Abbey  are  so  profoundly  un- 
satisfactory in  my  eyes  that — plainly — I would 
rather  have  nothing  to  do  with  them  in  any 
case.  My  daughter  and  her  aunt  unite  with  me 
in  kindest  regards  to  Mrs.  Fairbairn,  and  I hope 
you  will  believe  in  the  possession  of  mine  until 
I am  quietly  buried  without  any  memorial  but 
such  as  I have  set  up  in  my  lifetime.”  Asked  a 
year  later  (August  1869)  to  say  something  on 
the  inauguration  of  Leigh  Hunt’s  bust  at  his 
grave  in  Kensal-green,  he  told  the  committee 
that  he  had  a very  strong  objection  to  speech- 
making beside  graves.  “ I do  not  expect  or 
wish  my  feelings  in  this  wise  to  guide  other 
men ; still,  it  is  so  serious  with  me,  and  the  idea 
of  ever  being  the  subject  of  such  a ceremony 
myself  is  so  repugnant  to  my  soul,  that  I must 
decline  to  officiate.” 

His  aversion  to  every  form  of  what  is  called 
patronage  of  literature  was  part  of  the  same 
feeling.  A few  months  earlier  he  had  received 
an  application  for  support  to  sucli  a scheme 
from  a person  assuming  a title  to  whieh  he  had 
no  pretension,  but  which  appeared  to  sanction 
the  request.  “ I beg  to  be  excused,”  was  his 
reply,  “ from  complying  with  tlie  recpiest  you  ilo 
me  the  honour  to  prefer,  simply  because  I hold 
the  opinion  that  there  is  a great  deal  too  much 
patronage  in  England.  The  better  the  design. 

PERSONAL  CHARACTERISTICS.  417 


tlie  less  (as  I tliink)  should  it  seek  such  adven- 
titious aitl,  and  the  more  composedly  should  it 
rest  on  its  own  merits.”  This  w'as  the  belief 
Southey  held ; it  extended  to  the  support  by 
way  of  patronage  given  by  such  societies  as  the 
Literary  Fund,  which  Southey  also  strongly  re- 
sisted ; and  it  survived  the  failure  of  the  Guild 
whereby  it  was  hoped  to  establish  a system  of 
self-help,  under  which  men  engaged  in  literary 
pursuits  might  be  as  proud  to  receive  as  to  give. 
Though  there  was  no  project  of  his  life  into  j 
which  he  flung  himself  with  greater  eagerness  j 
than  the  Guild,  it  was  not  taken  up  by  the  class  j 
it  was  meant  to  benefit,  and  every  renewed  exer- 
tion more  largely  added  to  the  failure.  There  , 
is  no  room  in  these  pages  for  the  story,  which  | 
will  add  its  chapter  some  day  to  the  vanity  of  | 
human  wishes ; but  a passage  from  a letter  to  | 
Buhver  Lytton  at  its  outset  will  be  some  measure  i 
. of  the  height  from  which  the  writer  fell,  when  all 
hope  for  what  he  had  so  set  his  heart  upon 
ceased.  “ I do  devoutly  believe  that  this  plan 
carried  by  the  support  which  I trust  will  be 
given  to  it,  will  change  the  status  of  the  literary 
man  in  England,  and  make  a revolution  in  his 
position  which  no  government,  no  power  on 
earth  but  his  own,  could  ever  effect.  I have 
implicit  confidence  in  the  scheme — so  splendidly 
begun — if  w'e  carry  it  out  with  a steadfast  energy. 

I have  a strong  conviction  that  we  hold  in  our 
hands  the  peace  and  honour  of  men  of  letters 
for  centuries  to  come,  and  that  you  are  destined 
to  be  their  best  and  most  enduring  benefactor. 
....  Oh  what  a procession  of  new  years  may 
walk  out  of  all  this  for  the  class  we  belong  to, 
after  we  are  dust.” 

These  views  about  patronage  did  not  make 
him  more  indulgent  to  the  clamour  widi  which 
it  is  so  often  invoked  for  the  ridiculously  small, 
i “ You  read  that  life  of  Clare?”  he  wrote  (15th 
of  August  1865).  “ see  such  pre- 

posterous exaggeration  of  small  claims  ? And 
isn’t  it  expressive,  the  perpetual  prating  of  him 
in  the  book  as  the  Poet  ? So  another  Incom- 
petent used  to  write  to  the  Literary  Fund  when 
1 rvas  on  the  committee  : ‘ This  leaves  the  Poet 
at  his  divine  mission  in  a corner  of  the  single 
room.  The  Poet’s  father  is  wiping  his  spec- 
tacles. The  Poet’s  mother  is  weaving.’ — Yah  ! ” 
He  was  equally  intolerant  of  every  magnificent 
proposal  that  should  render  the  literary  man  in- 
dependent of  the  bookseller,  and  he  sharply 
criticized  even  a compromise  to  replace  the  half- 
profit system  by  one  of  royalties  on  copies  sold. 

'•  What  does  it  come  to  ? ” he  remarked  of  an 
ably  written  pamphlet  in  which  this  was  urged 
(loth  of  November  1866) ; “what  is  the  worth 


of  the  remedy  after  all  ? You  and  I know  very 
well  that  in  nine  cases  out  of  ten  the  author  is 
at  a disadvantage  with  the  publisher  because  the 
publisher  has  capital  and  the  author  has  not. 

We  know  perfectly  well  that  in  nine  cases  out  of 
ten  money  is  advanced  by  the  publisher  before 
the  book  is  producible — often,  long  before.  No  | 
young  or  unsuccessful  author  (unless  he  w'ere  an 
amateur  and  an  independent  gentleman)  would 
make  a bargain  for  having  that  royalty,  to-morrow, 
if  he  could  have  a certain  sum  of  money,  or  an 
advance  of  money.  The  author  who  coidd  com- 
mand that  bargain,  could  command  it  to-morrow,  | 
or  command  anything  else.  For  the  less  fortu-  ! 

nate  or  the  less  able,  I make  bold  to  say — with  ! 

some  knowledge  of  the  subject,  as  a writer  whO'  ; 
made  a publisher’s  fortune  long  before  he  began 
to  share  in  the  real  profits  of  his  books— that 
if  the  publishers  met  next  week,  and  resolved 
henceforth  to  make  this  royalty  bargain  and  no 
other,  it  would  be  an  enormous  hardship  and 
misfortune  because  the  authors  could  not  live 
while  they  wrote.  The  pamphlet  seems  to  me 
just  another  example  of  the  old  philosophical 
chess-playing,  with  human  beings  for  pieces. 

‘ Don’t  want  money.’  ‘ Be  careful  to  be  born 
with  means,  and  have  a banker’s  account.’  ‘ Your 
publisher  will  settle  with  you,  at  such  and  such 
long  periods  according  to  the  custom  of  his  trade, 
and  you  will  settle  with  your  butcher  and  baker 
weekly,  in  the  meantime,  by  drawing  cheques 
as  I do.’  ‘You  must  be  sure  not  to  want  money, 
and  then  I have  worked  it  out  for  you  splen- 
didly.’ ” 

Less  has  been  said  in  this  work  than  might 
perhaps  have  been  wished,  of  the  way  in  which 
his  editorship  of  Household  Words  and  of  All 
the  Year  Round  was  discharged.  It  was  distin- 
guished above  all  by  liberality ; and  a scrupu- 
lous consideration  and  delicacy,  evinced  by  him  i 
to  all  his  contributors,  was  part  of  the  esteem  in  ! ' 
which  he  held  literature  itself.  It  was  said  in  a | . 
newspaper  after  his  death,  evidently  by  one  of  | ^ 
his  contributors,  that  he  always  brought  the  best  j | 
out  of  a man  by  encouragement  and  apprecia-  j 
tion ; that  he  liked  his  writers  to  feel  unfettered  ; j j 
and  that  his  last  reply  to  a proposition  for  a j 
series  of  articles  had  been  ; “ Whatever  you  see  ' ' 
your  way  to,  I will  see  mine  to,  and  we  know  j j 
and  understand  each  other  well  enough  to  make  1 1 
the  best  of  these  conditions.”  Yet  the  strong  ! 
feeling  of  personal  responsibility  was  always 
preient  in  his  conduct  of  both  journals ; and 
varied  as  the  contents  of  a number  might  be, 
and  widely  apart  the  writers,  a certain  indivi- 
duality of  his  own  was  never  absent.  He  took 
immense  pains  (as  indeed  was  his  habit  about 


41 8 THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICICENS. 


everything)  with  numbers  in  which  he  had  written 
nothing ; would  often  accept  a paper  from  a 
young  or  unhandy  contributor,  because  of  some 
single  notion  in  it  which  he  thought  it  worth 
rewriting  for  ; and  in  this  way,  or  by  helping 
generally  to  give  strength  and  attractiveness  to 
the  work  of  others,  he  grudged  no  trouble.  “ I 
have  had  a story”  he  wrote  (22nd  of  June  1856) 
“ to  hack  and  hew  into  some  form  for  HoiiseJioId 
IVords  this  morning,  which  has  taken  me  four 
hours  of  close  attention.  And  I am  perfectly 
addled  by  its  horrible  want  of  continuity  after 
all,  and  the  dreadful  spectacle  I have  made  of 
the  proofs — which  look  like  an  inky  fishing-net.” 
A few  lines  from  another  letter  will  show  the 
difficulties  in  which  he  was  often  involved  by 
the  plan  he  adopted  for  Christmas  numbers,  of 
putting  within  a framework  by  himself  a number 
of  stories  by  separate  writers  to  whom  the  lead- 
ing notion  had  before  been  severally  sent.  “ As 
yet”  (25th  of  November  1859),  “not  a story 
has  come  to  me  in  the  least  belonging  to  the 
idea  (the  simplest  in  the  world ; which  1 myself 
described  in  writing,  in  the  most  elaborate 
manner) ; and  every  one  of  them  turns,  by  a 
strange  fatality,  on  a criminal  trial ! ” It  had  all 
to  be  set  right  by  him,  and  editorship  on  such 
terms  was  not  a sinecure. 

It  had  its  pleasures  as  well  as  pains,  however, 
and  the  greatest  was  when  he  fancied  he  could 
descry  unusual  merit  in  any  writer.  A letter 
will  give  one  instance  for  illustration  of  many ; 
the  lady  to  whom  it  was  addressed,  admired 
under  her  assumed  name  of  Holme  Lee,  having 
placed  it  at  my  disposal.  (Folkestone  ; 14th  of 
August  1855.)  “I  read  your  tale  with  the 
strongest  emotion,  and  with  a very  exalted  ad- 
miration of  the  great  power  displayed  in  it. 
Both  in  sev’erity  and  tenderness  I thought  it 
masterly.  It  moved  me  more  than  I can  ex- 
press to  you.  I wrote  to  Mr.  Wills  that  it  had 
completely  unsettled  me  for  the  day,  and  that 
by  whomsoever  it  was  written,  I felt  the  highest 
respect  for  the  mind  that  had  produced  it.  It 
so  happened  that  I had  been  for  some  days  at 
work  upon  a character  externally  like  the  Aunt. 
And  it  was  very  strange  to  me  indeed  to  observe 
how  the  two  people  seemed  to  be  near  to  one 
another  at  first,  and  then  turned  off  on  their 
own  ways  so  wide  asunder.  I told  Mr.  Wills 
that  I was  not  sure  whether  I could  have  pre- 
vailed upon  myself  to  present  to  a large  audi- 
ence the  terrible  consideration  of  hereditary 
madness,  when  it  was  reasonably  probable  that 
there  must  be  many — or  some — among  them 
whom  it  would  awfully,  because  personally, 
address.  But  I was  not  obliged  to  ask  myself 


the  question,  inasmuch  as  the  length  of  the 
story  rendered  it  unavailable  for  Hoiisehold 
Words.  I speak  of  its  length  in  reference  to 
that  publication  only ; relatively  to  what  is  told 
in  it,  I would  not  spare  a page  of  your  manu- 
script. Experience  shows  me  that  a story  in 
four  portions  is  best  suited  to  the  peculiar 
requirements  of  such  a journal,  and  I assure 
you  it  will  be  an  uncommon  satisfaction  to  me 
if  this  correspondence  should  lead  to  your  en- 
rolment among  its  contributors.  But  my  strong 
and  sincere  conviction  of  the  vigour  and  pathos 
of  this  beautiful  tale,  is  quite  apart  from,  and 
not  to  be  influenced  by,  any  ulterior  results. 
You  had  no  existence  to  me  when  I read  it. 
The  actions  and  sufterings  of  the  characters 
affected  me  by  their  own  force  and  truth,  and 
left  a profound  impression  on  me.”  The  expe- 
rience there  mentioned  did  not  prevent  him 
from  admitting  into  his  later  periodical.  All  the 
Year  Round,  longer  serial  stories,  published 
with  the  names  of  known  writers ; and  to  his 
own  interference  with  these  he  properly  placed 
limits.  “ When  one  of  my  literary  brothers 
does  me  the  honour  to  undertake  such  a task,  I 
hold  that  he  executes  it  on  his  own  personal 
responsibility,  and  for  the  sustainment  of  his 
own  reputation ; and  I do  not  consider  myself 
at  liberty  to  exercise  that  control  over  his  text 
v/hich  I claim  as  to  other  contributions.”  Nor 
had  he  any  greater  pleasure,  even  in  these  cases, 
than  to  help  younger  novelists  to  popularity. 
“You  asked  me  about  new  writers  last  night. 
If  you  will  read  Kissing  the  Rod,  a book  I have 
read  to-day,  you  will  not  find  it  hard  to  take  an 
interest  in  the  author  of  such  a book.”  That 
was  Mr.  Edmund  Yates,  in  whose  literary  suc- 
cesses he  took  the  greatest  interest  himself,  and 
with  whom  he  continued  to  the  last  an  intimate 
personal  intercourse  which  had  dated  from  kind- 
ness shown  at  a very  trying  time.  “ I think,” 
he  wrote  of  another  of  his  contributors,  Mr. 
Percy  Fitzgerald,  for  whom  he  had  also  much 
personal  liking,  and  of  whose  powers  he  thought 
highly,  “you  will  find  Fatal  Zero  a very  curious 
bit  of  mental  development,  deepening  as  the 
story  goes  on  into  a picture  not  more  startling 
than  true.”  My  mention  of  these  pleasures  of 
editorshi]^  shall  close  with  Avhat  I think  to  him 
was  the  greatest.  He  gave  to  the  world,  while 
yet  the  name  of  the  writer  was  unknown  to  him, 
the  pure  and  pathetic  verse  of  Adelaide  Procter. 
“In  the  spring  of  the  year  1853  I observed  a 
short  ])oem  among  the  proffered  contributions,^ 
very  clifferent,  as  I thought,  from  the  shoal  oi 
verses  i)crpetually  setting  through  the  oflice  of 
such  a periodical.”  The  contributions  had  been 


PERSONAL  CIIA  RA  C TER  IS  TICS. 


419 


i 

I 

I 

j 


I 

I 

i 

i 


I 


I large  and  frequent  under  an  assumed  name, 
when  at  Christmas  1854  he  discovered  that 
Miss  Mary  lierwick  was  the  daughter  of  his  old 
and  dear  friend,  Barry  Cornwall. 

But  periodical  writing  is  not  without  its  draw- 
backs, and  its  effect  on  Dickens,  who  engaged 
in  it  largely  from  time  to  time,  was  observable 
in  the  increased  impatience  of  allusion  to  na- 
' tional  institutions  and  conventional  distinctions 
to  be  found  in  his  later  books.  Party  divisions 
he  cared  for  less  and  less  as  life  moved  on ; but 
the  decisive,  peremptory,  dogmatic  style  into 
which  a habit  of  rapid  remark  on  topics  of  the 
day  will  betray  the  most  candid  and  considerate 
commentator,  displayed  its  influence,  perhaps 
not  always  consciously  to  himself,  in  the  under- 
lying tone  of  bitterness  that  runs  through  the 
books  which  followed  Copperfidd.  The  resent- 
ment against  remediable  wrongs  is  as  praise- 
worthy in  them  as  in  the  earlier  tales ; but  the 
exposure  of  Chancery  abuses,  administrative 
incompetence,  politico-economic  shortcomings, 
and  social  flunkeyism,  in  Bleak  House,  Little 
Dorr  it,  Hard  Times,  and  Our  Mutual  Friend, 
would  not  have  been  made  less  odious  by  the 
cheerier  tone  that  had  struck  with  much  sharper 
effect  at  prison  abuses,  parish  wrongs,  Yorkshire 
schools,  and  hypocritical  humbug,  in  Pickwick, 
Oliver  Tivist,  Nickleby,  and  Cliuzzlewit.  It  will 
be  remembered  of  him  always  that  he  desired 
to  set  right  what  was  wrong,  that  he  held  no 
' abuse  to  be  unimprovable,  that  he  left  none  of 
A the  evils  named  exactly  as  he  found  them,  and 
! that  to  influences  drawn  from  his  writings  were 
I due  not  a few  of  the  salutary  changes  which 
i marked  the  age  in  which  he  lived  ; but  anger 
I does  not  improve  satire,  and  it  gave  latterly, 

’ from  the  causes  named,  too  aggressive  a form  to 
what,  after  all,  was  but  a very  wholesome  hatred 
1 of  the  cant  that  everything  English  is  perfect, 

I and  that  to  call  a thing  z/;/English  is  to  doom  it 
j to  abhorred  extinction. 

! “ I have  got  an  idea  for  occasional  papers  in 

Household  Words  called  the  Member  for  No- 
I where.  The\^  will  contain  an  account  of  his 
! views,  votes,  and  speeches;  and  I think  of 
I starting  with  his  speeches  on  the  Sunday  ques- 
i tion.  He  is  a member  of  the  Government  of 
course.  The  moment  they  found  such  a mem- 
ber in  the  House,  they  felt  that  he  must  be 
i dragged  (by  force,  if  necessary)  into  the  Cabi- 
! net.”  “ I give  it  up  reluctantly,”  he  wrote 
: afterwards,  “ and  with  it  my  hope  to  have  made 

! every  man  in  England  feel  something  of  the 
' contempt  for  the  House  of  Commons  that  I 
' have.  We  shall  never  begin  to  do  anything 
! until  the  sentiment  is  universal.”  That  was  in 


August  1854;  and  the  break-down  in  the 
Crimea  that  rvintcr  much  embittered  his  radical- 
ism. “ I am  hourly  strengthened  in  my  old 
belief,”  he  wrote  (3rd  of  February  1855),  “ that 
our  political  aristocracy  and  our  tuft-hunting 
are  the  death  of  England.  In  all  this  business 
I don’t  see  a gleam  of  hope.  As  to  the  popular 
spirit,  it  has  come  to  be  so  entirely  separated 
from  the  Parliament  and  Government,  and  so 
perfectly  apathetic  about  them  both,  that  I 
seriously  think  it  a most  portentous  sign.”  A 
couple  of  months  later  : “ 1 have  rather  a bright 
idea,  I think,  for  Household  Words  this  morn- 
ing : a fine  little  bit  of  satire  : an  account  of  an 
Arabic  MS.  lately  discovered  very  like  the 
Arabia)i  Nights — called  the  Thousand  and  One 
Humbugs.  With  new  versions  of  the  best 
known  stories.”  This  also  had  to  be  given  up, 
and  is  only  mentioned  as  another  illustration  of 
his  political  discontents  and  of  their  connection 
with  his  journal-work.  The  influence  from  his 
early  life  which  unconsciously  strengthened 
them  in  certain  social  directions  has  been 
hinted  at,  and  of  his  absolute  sincerity  in  the 
matter  there  can  be  no  doubt.  The  mistakes 
of  Dickens  were  never  such  as  to  cast  a shade 
on  his  integrity.  What  he  said  with  too  much 
bitterness,  in  his  heart  he  believed  ; and  had, 
alas  i too  much  ground  for  believing.  “ A 
country”  he  wrote  (27th  of  April  1855)  “rvhich 
is  discovered  to  be  in  this  tremendous  condition 
as  to  its  war  affairs ; with  an  enormous  black 
cloud  of  poverty  in  every  town  which  is  spjread- 
ing  and  deepening  every  hour,  and  not  one 
man  in  two  thousand  knowing  anything  about, 
or  even  believing  in,  its  existence  ; with  a non- 
working aristocracy,  and  a silent  parliament, 
and  everybody  for  himself  and  nobody  for  the 
rest ; this  is  the  prospect,  and  I tflink  it  a very 
deplorable  one.”  Admirably  did  he  say,  of  a 
notorious  enquiry  at  that  time  : “ O what  a fine 
aspect  of  political  economy  it  is,  that  the  noble 
professors  of  the  science  on  the  adulteration 
committee  should  have  tried  to  make  Adultera- 
tion a question  of  Supply  and  Demand  1 We 
shall  never  get  to  the  Millennium,  sir,  by  the 
rounds  of  that  ladder ; and  I,  for  one,  won’t 
hold  by  the  skirts  of  that  Great  Mogul  of  im- 
postors, Master  M‘Culloch  ! ” Again  he  wrote 
(30th  of  September  1855)  : “I  really  am  serious 
in  thinking — and  I have  given  as  painful  con- 
sideration to  the  subject  as  a man  with  children 
to  live  and  suffer  after  him  can  honestly  give  to 
it — that  representative  government  is  become 
altogether  a failure  with  us,  that  the  English 
gentilities  and  subserviences  render  the  people 
unfit  for  it,  and  that  the  whole  thing  has  broken 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICICENS. 


420 


down  since  that  great  seventeenth-century  time, 
and  has  no  hope  in  it.” 

With  the  good  sense  that  still  overruled  all 
his  farthest  extremes  of  opinion  he  yet  never 
thought  of  parliament  for  himself.  He  could 
not  mend  matters,  and  for  him  it  would  have 
been  a false  position.  The  people  of  the  town 
of  Reading  and  others  applied  to  him  during 
the  first  half  of  his  life,  and  in  the  last  half  some 
of  the  Metropolitan  constituencies.  To  one  of 
the  latter  a reply  is  before  me  in  which  he  says  : 
“ I declare  that  as  to  all  matters  on  the  face  of 
this  teeming  earth,  it  appears  to  me  that  the 
House  of  Commons  and  Parliament  altogether 
is  become  just  the  dreariest  failure  and  nuisance 
that  ever  bothered  this  much-bothered  world.” 
To  a private  enquiry  of  apparently  about  the 
same  date  he  replied  : “ I have  thoroughly 
satisfied  myself,  having  often  had  occasion  to 
consider  the  question,  that  I can  be  far  more 
usefully  and  independently  employed  in  my 
chosen  sphere  of  action  than  I could  hope  to 
be  in  the  House  of  Commons ; and  I believe 
that  no  consideration  would  induce  me  to  be- 
come a member  of  that  extraordinary  assem- 
bly.” Finally,  upon  a reported  discussion  in 
Finsbury  whether  or  not  he  should  be  invited 
to  sit  for  that  borough,  he  promptly  wrote  (No- 
vember 1861):  “It  may  save  some  trouble  if 
you  will  kindly  confirm  a sensible  gentleman 
who  doubted  at  that  meeting  whether  I was 
quite  the  man  for  Finsbury.  I am  not  at  all 
the  sort  of  man ; for  I believe  nothing  would 
induce  me  to  offer  myself  as  a parliamentary 
representative  of  that  place,  or  of  any  other 
under  the  sun.”  The  only  direct  attempt  to 
join  a political  agitation  was  his  speech  at 
Drury-lane  for  administrative  reform,  and  he 
never  repeated  it.  But  every  movement  for 
practical  social  reforms,  to  obtain  more  efficient 
sanitary  legislation,  to  get  the  best  compulsory 
education  practicable  for  the  poor,  and  to  better 
the  condition  of  labouring  people,  he  assisted 
earnestly  to  his  last  hour  ; and  the  readiness 
with  which  he  took  the  chair  at  meetings  having 
such  objects  in  view,  the  help  he  gave  to  im- 
portant societies  working  in  beneficent  ways  for 
themselves  or  the  community,  and  the  power 
and  attractiveness  of  his  oratory,  made  him  one 
of  the  forces  of  tlie  time.  His  speeches  derived 
singular  charm  from  the  buoyancy  of  his  perfect 
self-possession,  and  to  this  he  added  the  advan- 
tages of  a person  and  manner  which  had  become 
as  familiar  and  as  popular  as  his  books.  The 
most  miscellaneous  assemblages  listened  to  him 
as  to  a personal  friend. 

Two  incidents  at  the  close  of  his  life  will 


show  what  upon  these  matters  his  latest  opi- 
nions were.  At  the  great  Liverpool  dinner 
after  his  country  readings  in  1869,  over  which 
Lord  Dufferin  eloquently  presided,  he  replied 
to  a remonstrance  from  Lord  Houghton  against 
his  objection  to  entering  public  ITe,  that  when 
he  took  literature  for  his  profession  he  intended 
it  to  be  his  sole  profession ; that  at  that  time  it 
did  not  appear  to  him  to  be  so  well  understood 
in  England,  as  in  some  other  countries,  that 
literature  was  a dignified  calling  by  which  any 
man  might  stand  or  fall;  and  he  resolved  that 
in  his  person  at  least  it  should  stand  “ by  itself, 
of  itself,  and  for  itself ; ” a bargain  which  “ no 
consideration  on  earth  would  now  induce  him 
to  break.”  Here  however  he  probably  failed  to 
see  the  entire  meaning  of  Lord  Houghton’s  re- 
gret, which  would  seem  to  have  been  meant  to 
say,  in  more  polite  form,  that  to  have  taken 
some  part  in  public  affairs  might  have  shown 
him  the  difficulty  in  a free  state  of  providing 
remedies  very  swiftly  for  evils  of  long  growth. 

A half  reproach  from  the  same  quarter  for 
alleged  unkindly  sentiments  to  the  Flouse  of 
Lords,  he  repelled  with  vehement  warmth ; 
insisting  on  his  great  regard  for  individual 
members,  and  declaring  that  there  was  no  man 
in  England  he  respected  more  in  his  public 
capacity,  loved  more  in  his  private  capacity,  or 
from  whom  he  had  received  more  remarkable 
proofs  of  his  honour  and  love  of  literature,  than 
Lord  Russell.  In  Birmingham  shortly  after, 
discoursing  on  education  to  the  members  of  the 
Midland  Institute,  he  told  them  they  should 
value  self-improvement,  not  because  it  led  to 
fortune  but  because  it  was  good  and  right  in 
itself ; counselled  them  in  regard  to  it  that  i 
Genius  was  not  worth  half  so  much  as  Atten-  ! 
tion,  or  the  art  of  taking  an  immense  deal  of  I 
pains,  which  he  declared  to  be,  in  every  study  j 
and  pursuit,  the  one  sole,  safe,  certain,  remunc-  1 
rative  quality ; and  summed  up  brieily  his  poli- 
tical belief.  “ My  faith  in  the  people  governing 
is,  on  the  whole,  infinitesimal  ; my  faith  in  the 
People  governed  is,  on  the  whole,  illimitable." 
This  he  afterwards  (January  1870)  explained  to 
mean  that  he  had  very  little  confidence  in  the 
people  who  govern  us  (“  with  a small  j)  ”),  and 
very  great  confidence  in  the  Peojile  whom  they 
govern  (“  with  a large  P ’’).  “ My  confession 

being  shortly  and  elliptically  stated,  was,  with 
no  evil  intention  I am  absolutely  sure,  in  some  1 
quarters  inversely  explained.”  He  added  that 
his  j)olitical  opinions  had  already  been  not 
obscurely  stated  in  an  “idle  book  or  two”; 
and  he  reminded  his  hearers  that  he  was  the 
inventor  “ of  a certain  fiction  called  the  Circum- 


PERSONAL  CHAR  A CTERISTJCS. 


421 


locution  Office,  said  to  be  very  extravagant,  but 
which  I do  see  rather  freciuently  quoted  as  if 
I there  were  grains  of  truth  at  tlie  bottom  of  it.” 
It  may  nevertheless  be  suspected,  with  some 
confidence,  that  the  construction  of  his  real 
meaning  was  not  far  wrong  which  assumed  it  as 
the  condition  precedent  to  his  illimitable  faith, 
that  the  people,  even  witli  the  big  P,  should  be 
“ governed.”  It  was  his  constant  complaint 
that,  being  much  in  want  of  government,  they 
had  only  sham  governors ; and  he  had  returned 
from  his  second  American  visit,  as  he  came 
back  from  his  first,  indisposed  to  believe  that 
the  political  problem  had  been  solved  in  the 
land  of  the  free.  From  the  pages  of  his  last 
book,  the  bitterness  of  allusion  so  frequent  in 
the  books  just  named  was  absent  altogether; 
and  his  old  unaltered  wish  to  better  what  was 
bad  in  English  institutions,  carried  with  it  no 
desire  to  replace  them  by  new  ones. 

In  a memoir  published  shortly  after  his  death 
there  appeared  this  statement.  “ For  many 
years  past  Her'  Majesty  the  Queen  has  taken 
the  liveliest  interest  in  Mr.  Dickens’s  literary 
labours,  and  has  frequently  expressed  a desire 

for  an  interview  with  him This  interview 

took  place  on  the  9 th  of  April,  when  he  received 
her  commands  to  attend  her  at  Buckingham 
Palace,  and  was  introduced  by  his  friend  Mr. 
Arthur  Helps,  the  clerk  of  the  Privy  Council. 
....  Since  our  author’s  decease  the  journal 
with  which  he  was  formerly  connected  has  said  : 

‘ The  Queen  was  ready  to  confer  any  distinction 
which  Mr.  Dickens’s  known  views  and  tastes 
would  permit  him  to  accept,  and  after  more 
than  one  title  of  honour  had  been  declined. 
Her  Majesty  desired  that  he  would,  at  least, 
accept  a place  in  her  Privy  Council.’  ” As 
nothing  is  too  absurd  for  belief,  it  will  not  be 
superfluous  to  say  that  Dickens  knew  of  no  such 
desire  on  her  Majesty’s  part ; and  though  all  the 
probabilities  are  on  the  side  of  his  unwillingness 
to  accept  any  title  or  place  of  honour,  certainly 
none  was  offered  to  him. 

It  had  been  hoped  to  obtain  her  Majesty’s 
name  for  the  Jerrold  performances  in  1857,  but, 
being  a public  effort  in  behalf  of  an  individual, 
assent  would  have  involved  “ either  perpetual 
compliance  or  the  giving  of  perpetual  offence.” 
Her  Alajesty  however  then  sent,  through  Colonel 
Phipps,  a request  to  Dickens  that  he  would 
select  a room  in  the  palace,  do  what  he  would 
with  it,  and  let  her  see  the  play  there.  “ I said 
to  Col.  Phipps  thereupon”  (21st  of  June  1857) 
“ that  the  idea  was  not  quite  new  to  me  ; that  I 
did  not  feel  easy  as  to  the  social  position  of  my 
daughters,  &c.  at  a Court  under  those  circum- 
Life  of  Charles  Dickens,  28. 


stances ; and  that  I would  beg  her  Majesty  to 
excuse  me,  if  any  other  way  of  seeing  the  play 
could  be  devised.  To  this  Phipps  saiil  he  had 
not  thought  of  the  objection,  but  had  not  the 
slightest  doubt  I was  right.  I then  proposed 
that  the  Queen  should  come  to  the  Gallery  of 
Illustration  a week  before  the  subscription  night, 
and  should  have  the  room  entirely  at  her  own 
disposal,  and  should  invite  her  own  company. 
This,  with  the  good  sense  that  seems  to  accom- 
pany her  good  nature  on  all  occasions,  she 
resolved  within  a few  hours  to  do.”  The  effect 
of  the  performance  was  a great  gratification. 
“My  gracious  sovereign”  (5th  of  July  1857) 
“ was  so  pleased  that  she  sent  round  beg- 
ging me  to  go  and  see  her  and  accept  her 
thanks.  I replied  that  I was  in  my  Farce  dress, 
and  must  beg  to  be  excused.  Whereupon  she 
sent  again,  saying  that  the  dress  ‘ could  not  be 
so  ridiculous  as  that,’  and  repeating  the  request. 
I sent  my  duty  in  reply,  but  again  hoped  her 
Majesty  would  have  the  kindness  to  excuse  my 
presenting  myself  in  a costume  and  appearance 
that  were  not  my  own.  I was  mighty  glad  to 
think,  when  I woke  this  morning,  that  I had 
carried  the  point.” 

The  opportunity  of  presenting  himself  in  his 
own  costume  did  not  arrive  till  the  year  of  his 
death,  another  effort  meanwhile  made  having 
proved  also  unsuccessful.  “ I was  put  into  a 
state  of  much  perplexity  on  Sunday”  (30th 
March  1858).  “I  don’t  know  who  had  spoken 
to  my  informant,  but  it  seems  that  the  Queen  is 
bent  upon  hearing  the  Carol  read,  and  has  ex- 
pressed her  desire  to  bring  it  about  without 
offence ; hesitating  about  the  manner  of  it,  in 
consequence  of  my  having  begged  to  be  excused 
from  going  to  her  when  she  sent  for  me  after  the 
Fi'ozen  Deep.  I parried  the  thing  as  well  as  I 
could  ; but  being  asked  to  be  prepared  with  a 
considerate  and  obliging  answer,  as  it  was 
known  the  request  would  be  preferred,  I said, 
‘Well  ! I supposed  Col.  Phipps  would  speak  to 
me  about  it,  and  if  it  were  he  who  did  so,  I 
should  assure  him  of  my  desire  to  meet  any  wish 
of  her  Majesty’s,  and  should  express  my  hope 
that  she  would  indulge  me  by  making  one  of 
some  audience  or  other — for  I thought  an  audi- 
ence necessary  to  the  effect.’  Thus  it  stands  : 
but  it  bothers  me.”  The  difficulty  remained, 
but  her  Majesty’s  continued  interest  in  the  Carol 
was  alleged  to  have  been  shown  by  her  purchase 
of  it  with  Dickens’s  autograph  at  Thackeray’s 
sale  ; and  at  last  there  came,  in  the  year  of  his 
death,  the  interview  with  the  author  whose 
popularity  dated  from  her  accession,  whose 
books  had  entertained  larger  numbers  of  her 

436 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


422 


i subjects  than  those  of  any  other  contemporary 
writer,  and  whose  genius  will  be  counted  among 
' I the  glories  of  her  reign.  Accident  led  to  it. 

I Dickens  had  brought  with  him  from  America 
; some  large  and  striking  photographs  of  the 
i : Battle  Fields  of  the  Civil  War,  which  the  Queen, 

' having  heard  of  them  through  Mr.  Helps,  ex- 
I ' pressed  a wish  to  look  at.  Dickens  sent  them 
I at  once ; and  went  afterwards  to  Buckingham 
I Palace  with  Mr.  Helps,  at  her  Majesty’s  re- 
! quest,  that  she  might  see  and  thank  him  in 
I person. 

I It  was  in  the  middle  of  March,  not  April. 

I “ Come  now  sir,  this  is  an  interesting  matter,  do 
favour  us  with  it,”  was  the  cry  of  Johnson’s 
friends  after  his  conversation  with  George  the 
I Third;  and  again  and  again  the  story  was  told 
to  listeners  ready  to  make  marvels  of  its  com- 
i mon places.  But  the  romance  even  of  the 

eighteenth  century  in  such  a matter  is  clean 
I gone  out  of  the  nineteenth.  Suffice  it  that  the 

I Queen’s  kindness  left  a strong  impression  on 

I Dickens.  Upon  her  Majesty’s  regret  not  to 

I have  heard  his  Readings,  Dickens  intimated 

1 that  they  were  become  now  a thing  of  the  past, 

i while  he  acknowledged  gratefully  her  Majesty’s 

I compliment  in  regard  to  them.  She  spoke  to 

j him  of  the  impression  made  upon  her  by  his 

i acting  in  the  Frozen  Deep;  and  on  his  stating,  in 

I reply  to  her  enquiry,  that  the  little  play  had  not 

I been  very  successful  on  the  public  stage,  said 

i this  did  not  surprise  her,  since  it  no  longer  had 

the  advantage  of  his  performance  in  it.  Then 
arose  a mention  of  some  alleged  discourtesy 
shown  to  Prince  Arthur  in  New  York,  and  he 
begged  her  Majesty  not  to  confound  the  true 
! Americans  of  that  city  with  the  Fenian  portion 
! of  its  Irish  population  ; on  which  she  made  the 
I quiet  comment  that  she  was  convinced  the 
people  about  the  Prince  had  made  too  much  of 
the  affair.  He  related  to  her  the  story  of  Presi- 
dent Lincoln’s  dream  on  the  night  before  his 
murder.  She  asked  him  to  give  her  his  writings, 
a^id  could  she  have  them  that  afternoon  ? but 
he  begged  to  be  allowed  to  send  a bound  copy. 
Her  Majesty  then  took  from  a table  her  own 
book  upon  the  Highlands,  with  an  autograph 
inscription  “ to  Charles  Dickens  ” ; and,  saying 
that  the  “ humblest  ” of  writers  would  be 
ashamed  to  offer  it  to  “ one  of  the  greatest  ” 
but  that  Mr.  Helps,  being  asked  to  give  it,  had 
I remarked  that  it  would  be  valued  most  from 
herself,  closed  the  interview  by  placing  it  in  his 
[ hands.  “Sir,”  said  Johnson,  “they  may  say 
what  they  like  of  the  young  King,  but  Louis  the 
[ Fourteenth  could  not  have  shown  a more  refined 
courtliness  ” ; and  Dickens  was  not  disposed  to 


say  less  of  the  young  King’s  granddaughter. 
That  the  grateful  impression  sufficed  to  carry 
him  into  new  ways,  I had  immediate  proof, 
coupled  with  intimation  of  the  still  surviving 
strength  of  old  memories.  “As  my  sovereign 
desires”  (26th  of  March  1870)  “that  I should 
attend  the  next  levee,  don’t  faint  with  amaze- 
ment if  you  see  my  name  in  that  unwonted  con- 
nexion. I have  scrupulously  kept  myself  free 
for  the  second  of  April,  in  case  you  should  be 
accessible.”  The  name  appeared  at  the  levee 
accordingly,  his  daughter  was  at  the  drawing- 
room that  followed,  and  Lady  Houghton  writes 
to  me  “I  never  saw  Mr.  Dickens  more  agree- 
able than  at  a dinner  at  our  house  about  a fort- 
night before  his  death,  when  he  met  the  King  of 
the  Belgians  and  the  Prince  of  Wales  at  the 
special  desire  of  the  latter.”  Up  to  nearly  the 
hour  of  dinner,  it  was  doubtful  if  he  could  go. 
He  was  suffering  from  the  distress  in  his  foot ; 
and  on  arrival  at  the  house,  being  unable  to 
ascend  the  stairs,  had  to  be  assisted  at  once 
into  the  dining-room. 

The  friend  who  had  accompanied  Dickens  to 
Buckingham  Palace,  writing  of  him  after  his 
death,  briefly  but  with  admirable  knowledge  and 
taste,  said  that  he  ardently  desired,  and  confi- 
dently looked  forward  to,  a time  when  there 
would  be  a more  intimate  union  than  exists' at 
present  between  the  different  classes  in  the 
state,  a union  that  should  embrace  alike  the 
highest  and  the  lowest.  This  perhaps  expresses, 
as  well  as  a few  words  could,  what  certainly  was 
always  at  his  heart ; and  he  might  have  come  to 
think  it,  when  his  life  was  closing,  more  possible 
of  realisation  some  day  than  he  ever  thought  it 
before.  The  hope  of  it  was  on  his  friend  Tal- 
fourd’s  lips  when  he  died,  and  his  own  most 
jarring  opinions  might  at  last  have  joined  in  the 
effort  to  bring  about  such  reconcilement.  More 
on  this  head  it  needs  not  to  say.  Whatever 
may  be  the  objection  to  special  views  held  by 
him,  he  would,  wanting  even  the  most  objec- 
tionable, have  been  less  himself.  It  was  by 
something  of  the  despot  seldom  separable  from 
genius,  joined  to  a truthfulness  of  nature  be- 
longing to  the  highest  characters,  that  men 
themselves  of  a rare  faculty  were  attracted  to 
find  in  Dickens  what  Sir  Arthur  Flelps  ha^ 
described,  “a  man  to  confide  in,  and  look  up 
to  as  a leader,  in  the  midst  of  any  great  peril.” 

Mr.  Layard  also  held  tliat  opinion  of  him. 
He  was  at  Gadshill  during  the  Christmas  before 
Dickens  went  for  the  last  time  to  America,  and 
witnessed  one  of  those  scenes,  not  infrequent 
there,  in  which  the  master  of  the  house  was  pre- 
eminently at  home.  They  took  generally  the 


PERSONAL  CHARACTERISTICS. 


423 


form  of  cricket  matches  ; but  this  was,  to  use 
the  jihrase  of  his  friend  Bobadil,  more  popular 
and  ditfused ; and  of  course  lie  rose  with  the 
! occasion.  “ The  more  you  want  of  the  master, 
i I the  more  you’ll  find  in  him,”  said  the  gasman 
‘ employed  about  his  readings.  “ Footraces 
[ for  the  villagers,”  he  wrote  on  Christmas  Day, 
j I “ come  off  in  my  field  to-morrow.  We  have 
I I been  all  hard  at  work  all  day,  building  a course, 

! making  countless  flags,  and  I don’t  know  what 
I else.  Layard  is  chief  commissioner  of  the  do- 
mestic police.  The  country  police  predict  an 
immense  crowd.”  There  were  between  two 
and  three  thousand  people;  and  somehow,  by 
a magical  kind  of  influence,  said  Layard, 
Dickens  seemed  to  have  bound  every  creature 
I present,  upon  what  honour  the  creature  had,  to 
keep  order.  What  was  the  special  means  used 
or  the  art  employed,  it  might  have  been  difficult 
I to  sa)’ ; but  this  was  the  result.  Writing  on 
! New  Year’s  Day,  Dickens  himself  described  it 
j to  me.  “ We  had  made  a very  pretty  course, 
j and  taken  great  pains.  Encouraged  by  the 
cricket  matches  experience,  I allowed  the  land- 
lord of  the  Falstaff  to  have  a drinking-booth  on 
I the  ground.  Not  to  seem  to  dictate  or  distrust, 
I gave  all  the  inuzes  (about  ten  pounds  in  the 
aggregate)  in  money.  The  great  mass  of  the 
crowd  were  labouring  men  of  all  kinds,  soldiers, 
sailors,  and  navvies.  They  did  not,  between 
half-past  ten,  w'hen  w'e  began,  and  sunset,  dis- 
place a rope  or  a stake;  and  they  left  every 
barrier  and  flag  as  neat  as  they  found  it.  There 
was  not  a dispute,  and  there  was  no  drunken- 
ness w'hatever.  I made  them  a little  speech 
from  the  lawm,  at  the  end  of  the  games,  saying 
j that  please  God  we  would  do  it  again  next  year, 
i They  cheered  most  lustily  and  dispersed.  The 
I road  between  this  and  Chatham  was  like  a Fair 
j all  day  ; and  surely  it  is  a fine  thing  to  get  such 
! perfect  behaviour  out  of  a reckless  seaport  town. 
Among  other  oddities  we  had  A Hurdle  Race 
for  Strangers.  One  man  (he  came  in  second) 
ran  120  yards  and  leaped  over  ten  hurdles,  in 
twenty  seconds,  with  a pipe  in  his  mouth,  and 
smoking  it  all  the  time.  ‘ If  it  hadn’t  been  for 
jour  pipe,’  I said  to  him  at  the  winning-post, 

‘ you  would  have  been  first.’  ‘ I beg  your  par- 
don, sir,’  he  answered,  ‘ but  if  it  hadn’t  been  for 
my  pipe,  I should  have  been  nowhere.’  ” The 
close  of  the  letter  had  this  rather  memorable 
announcement.  “The  sale  of  the  Christmas 
number  was,  3'esterday  evening,  255, 380. 
Would  it  be  absurd  to  say  that  there  is  some- 
thing in  such  a vast  popularity  in  itself  elec- 
trical, and,  though  founded  on  books,  felt  where 
books  never  reach  t 


It  is  also  very  noticeable  that  what  would 
have  constituted  the  strength  of  Dickens  if  he 
had  entered  public  life,  the  attractive  as  well  as 
the  commanding  side  of  his  nature,  was  that 
which  kept  him  most  within  the  circle  of  home 
pursuits  and  enjoyments.  This  “better  part” 
of  him  had  now  long  survived  that  sorrowful 
period  of  1857-58,  when,  for  reasons  which  I 
have  not  thought  myself  free  to  suppress,  a 
vaguely  disturbed  feeling  for  the  time  took  pos- 
session of  him,  and  occurrences  led  to  his  adop- 
tion of  other  pursuits  than  those  to  which  till 
then  he  had  given  himself  exclusively.  It  was 
a sad  interval  in  his  life  ; but,  though  changes 
incident  to  the  new  occupation  then  taken  up 
remained,  and  with  them  many  adverse  influ« 
ences  which  brought  his  life  prematurely  to  a 
close,  it  was,  with  any  reference  to  that  feeling, 
an  interval  only;  and  the'dominant  impression 
of  the  later  years,  as  of  the  earlier,  takes  the 
marvellously  domestic  home-loving  shape  in 
which  also  the  strength  of  his  genius  is  found. 
It  will  not  do  to  draw  round  any  part  of  such  a 
man  too  hard  a line,  and  the  writer  must  not 
be  charged  with  inconsistency  who  says  that 
Dickens’s  childish  sufferings,  and  the  sense  they 
burnt  into  him  of  fhe  misery  of  loneliness  and  a 
craving  for  joys  of*  home,  though  they  led  to 
what  was  weakest  in  him,  led  also  to  what  was 
greatest.  It  was  his  defect  as  well  as  his  merit 
in  maturer  life  not  to  be  able  to  live  alone. 
When  the  fancies  of  his  novels  were  upon  him 
and  he  was  under  their  restless  influence,  though 
he  often  talked  of  shutting  himself  up  in  out  of 
the  way  solitary  places,  he  never  went  anywhere 
unaccompanied  by  members  of  his  family.  His 
habits  of  daily  living  he  carried  with  him 
wherever  he  went.  In  Albaro  and  Genoa,  at  Lau- 
sanne and  Geneva,  in  Paris  and  Boulogne,  his 
ways  were  as  entirely  those  of  home  as  in  Lon- 
don and  Broadstairs.  If  it  is  the  property  of  a 
domestic  nature  to  be  personally  interested  in 
every  detail,  the  smallest  as  the  greatest,  of  the 
four  walls  within  which  one  lives,  then  no  man 
had  it  so  essentially  as  Dickens.  No  man  was 
so  inclined  naturally  to  derive  his  happiness 
from  home  concerns.  Even  the  kind  of  inter- 
est in  a house  which  is  commonly  confined  to 
women,  he  was  full  of.  Not  to  speak  of  changes 
of  importance,  there  was  not  an  additional  hook 
put  up  wherever  he  inhabited,  without  his  know- 
ledge, or  otherwise  than  as  part  of  some  small 
ingenuity  of  his  own.  Nothing  was  too  minute 
for  his  personal  superintendence.  Whatever 
might  be  in  hand,  theatricals  for  the  little  chil- 
dren, entertainments  for  those  of  larger  growth, 
cricket  matches,  dinners,  field  sports,  from  the 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


first  new  year’s  eve  dance  in  Doughty  Street  to 
the  last  musical  party  in  Hyde  Park  Place,  he 
was  the  centre  and  soul  of  it.  He  did  not  care 
to  take  measure  of  its  greater  or  less  importance. 
It  was  enough  that  a thing  was  to  do,  to  be 
worth  his  while  to  do  it  as  if  there  was  nothing 
else  to  be  done  in  the  world.  The  cry  of  Laud 
and  Wentworth  was  his,  alike  in  small  and  great 
things ; and  to  no  man  was  more  applicable  the 
German  “ Echt,”  which  expresses  reality  as  well 


as  thoroughness.  The  usual  result  followed,  in 
all  his  homes,  of  an  absolute  reliance  on  him 
for  everything.  Under  every  difficulty,  and  in 
every  emergency,  his  was  the  encouraging  influ- 
ence, the  bright  and  ready  help.  In  illness, 
whether  of  the  children  or  any  of  the  servants, 

I he  was  better  than  a doctor.  He  was  so  full  of 
resource,  for  which  every  one  eagerly  turned  to 
j him,  that  his  mere  presence  in  the  sick-room 
was  a healing  influence,  as  if  nothing  could  fail 


“I  BEG  YOUR  PARDON,  SIR,”  HE  ANSWERED,  “BUT  IF  IT  HADN’T  BEEN  FOR  JIY  PIPE,  I SHOULD  H.WE 

BEEN  NOWHERE.” 


if  he  were  only  there.  So  that  at  last,  when,  all 
through  the  awful  night  which  preceded  his 
departure,  he  lay  senseless  in  the  room  where 
he  had  fallen,  the  stricken  and  bewildered  ones 
who  tended  him  found  it  impossible  to  believe 
that  what  they  saw  before  them  alone  was  left, 
or  to  shut  out  wholly  the  strange  wild  hope  that 
he  might  again  be  suddenly  among  them  like 
himself,  and  revive  what  they  could  not  con- 
nect, even  then,  with  death’s  despairing  help- 
lessness. 


It  was  not  a feeling  confined  to  the  relatives 
whom  he  had  thus  taught  to  have  such  e.xclusive 
dependence  on  him.  Among  the  consolations 
addressed  to  those  mourners  came  words  from 
one  whom  in  life  he  had  most  honoured,  and 
who  also  found  it  difficult  to  connect  him  with 
death,  or  to  think  that  he  should  never  sec  tliat 
blithe  face  any  more.  “It  is  almost  thirty 
years,”  Mr.  Carlyle  wrote,  “since  my  acquaint- 
ance with  him  began ; and  on  my  side,  I may 
say,  every  new  meeting  rijienctl  it  into  more 


PERSONAL  CHAR  A CTER/ST/CS. 


i and  more  clear  discernment  of  his  rare  and 
great  worth  as  a brother  man  ; a most  cordial, 
sincere,  clear-sighted,  quietly  decisive,  just  and 
I loving  man  ; till  at  length  he  had  grown  to 
I such  a recognition  with  me  as  I have  rarely 
had  for  any  man  of  my  time.  This  I can 
tell  you  three,  for  it  is  true  and  will  be  welcome 
to  you  ; to  others  less  concerned  I had  as  soon 
;io(  speak  on  such  a subject.”  “ I am  pro- 
foundly sorry  for  jwi,”  Mr.  Carlyle  at  the  same 
time  wrote  to  me  ; “ and  indeed  for  myself  and 
for  us  all.  It  is  an  event  world-wide  ; a unique 
of  talents  suddenly  extinct;  and  has  ‘eclipsed,’ 
we  too  may  say,  ‘ tire  harmless  gaiety  of  na- 
tions.’ No  death  since  1866  has  fallen  on  me 
w'ith  such  a stroke.  No  literary  man’s  hitherto 
ever  did.  The  good,  the  gentle,  high-gifted, 
ever-friendly,  noble  Dickens, — every  inch  of 
him  an  Honest  Man.” 

Of  his  ordinary  habits  of  activity  I have 
spoken,  and  they  were  doubtless  carried  too  far. 

} In  youth  it  was  all  well,  but  he  did  not  make 
allowance  for  years.  This  has  had  abundant 
illustration,  but  will  admit  of  a few  words  more. 
To  all  men  who  do  much,  rule  and  order  are 
essential ; method  in  everything  was  Dickens’s 
peculiarity;  and  between  breakfast  and  luncheon, 
with  rare  exceptions,  was  his  time  of  work.  But 
his  daily  walks  were  less  of  rule  than  of  enjoy- 
ment and  necessity.  In  the  midst  of  his  writing 
they  were  indispensable,  and  especially,  as  it  has 
often  been  shown,  at  night.  Mr.  Sala  is  an 
] authority  on  London  streets,  and,  in  the  elo- 
I quent  and  generous  tribute  he  was  among  the 
' first  to  offer  to  his  memory,  has  described  him- 
self encountering  Dickens  in  the  oddest  places 
and  most  inclement  weather,  in  Ratclrffe-high- 
way,  on  Haverstock-hill,  on  Camberwell-green, 
in  Gray’s-inn-lane,  in  the  Wandsworth-road,  at 
Hammersmith  Broadway,  in  Norton  Folgate, 
and  at  Kensal  New  Town.  “ A hansom  whirled 
you  by  the  Bell  and  Horns  at  Brompton,  and 
there  he  was  striding,  as  with  seven-league 
boots,  seemingly  in  the  direction  of  North-end, 
Fulham.  The  Metropolitan  Railway  sent  you 
forth  at  Lisson-grove,  and  you  met  him  plod- 
ding speedily  towards  the  Yorkshire  Stingo.  He 
was  to  be  met  rapidly  skirting  the  grim  brick 
wall  of  the  prison  in  Coldbath-fields,  or  trudging 
along  the  Seven  Sisters-road  at  Holloway,  or  bear- 
ing, under  a steady  press  of  sail,  underneath 
Highgate  Archway,  or  pursuing  the  even  tenor 
of  his  way  up  the  Vauxhall-bridge-road.”  But 
he  was  equally  at  home  in  the  intricate  byways 
of  narrow  streets  as  in  the  lengthy  thoroughfares. 
Wherever  there  was  “ matter  to  be  heard  and 
learned,”  in  back  streets  behind  Holborn,  in 


Borough  courts  and  passages,  in  City  wharfs  or 
alleys,  about  the  poorer  lodging-houses,  in  pri- 
sons, workhouses,  ragged-schools,  police-courts, 
rag-shops,  chandlers’  shops,  and  all  sorts  of 
markets  for  the  poor,  he  carried  his  keen  obser- 
vation and  untiring  study.  “ I was  among  the 
Italian  Boys  from  12  to  2 this  morning,”  says 
one  of  his  letters.  “ I am  going  out  to-night  in 
their  boat  with  the  Thames  Police,”  says  another. 
It  was  the  same  when  he  was  in  Italy  or  Switzer- 
land, as  we  have  seen ; and  when,  in  later  life, 
he  was  in  French  provincial  places.  “ I walk 
miles  away  into  the  country,  and  you  can  scarcely 
imagine  by  what  deserted  ramparts  and  silent 
little  cathedral  closes,  or  how  I pass  over  rustic 
drawbridges  and  stagnant  ditches  out  of  and 
into  the  decaying  town.”  For  several  consecu- 
tive years  I accompanied  him  every  Christmas 
Eve  to  see  the  marketings  for  Christmas  down 
the  road  from  Aldgate  to  Bow ; and  he  had  a 
surprising  fondness  for  wandering  about  in  poor 
neighbourhoods  on  Christmas-day,  past  the  areas 
of  shabby  genteel  houses  in  Somers  or  Kentish 
Towns,  and  watching  the  dinners  preparing  or 
coming  in.  But  the  temptations  of  his  country 
life  led  him  on  to  excesses  in  walking.  “ Coming 
in  just  now,”  he  wrote  in  his  third  year  at  Gads- 
hill,  “after  twelve  miles  in  the  rain,  I was  so 
wet  that  I have  had  to  change  and  get  my  feet 
into  warm  water  before  I could  do  anything.” 
Again,  two  years  later ; “ A south-easter  blowing 
enough  to  cut  one’s  throat.  I am  keeping  the 
house  for  my  cold,  as  I did  yesterday.  But  the 
remedy  is  so  new  to  me,  that  I doubt  if  it  does 
me  half  the  good  of  a dozen  miles  in  the  snow. 
So,  if  this  mode  of  treatment  fails  to-day,  I 
shall  try  that  to-morrow.”  He  tried  it  perhaps 
too  often.  In  the  winter  of  1865  he  first  had 
the  attack  in  his  left  foot  which  materially  dis- 
abled his  walking-power  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 
He  supposed  its  cause  to  be  overwalking  in  the 
snow,  and  that  this  had  aggravated  the  suffering 
is  very  likely ; but,  read  by  the  light  of  what 
followed,  it  may  now  be  presumed  to  have  had 
more  serious  origin.  It  recurred  at  intervals, 
before  America,  without  any  such  provocation ; 
in  America  it  came  back,  not  when  he  had  most 
been  walking  in  the  snow,  but  when  nervous 
exhaustion  was  at  its  worst  with  him ; after 
America,  it  became  prominent  on  the  eve  of  the 
occurrence  at  Preston  which  first  revealed  the 
progress  that  disease  had  been  making  in  the 
vessels  of  the  brain ; and  in  the  last  year  of  his 
life,  as  will  immediately  be  seen,  it  was  a con- 
stant trouble  and  most  intense  suffering,  extend- 
ing then  gravely  to  his  left  hand  also,  which 
had  before  been  only  slightly  affected. 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICLCENS. 


426 


It  was  from  a letter  of  the  21st  of  February 
1865  I first  learnt  that  he  was  suffering  tortures 
from  a “ frost-bitten  ” foot,  and  ten  days  later 
brought  more  detailed  account.  “ I got  frost- 
bitten by  walking  continually  in  the  snow,  and 
getting  wet  in  the  feet  daily.  My  boots  hardened 
and  softened,  hardened  and  softened,  my  left 
foot  swelled,  and  I still  forced  the  boot  on ; sat 
in  it  to  write,  half  the  day  ; walked  in  it  through 
the  snow,  the  other  half;  forced  the  boot  on 
again  next  morning ; sat  and  walked  again ; and 
being  accustomed  to  all  sorts  of  changes  in  my 
feet,  took  no  heed.  At  length,  going  out  as 
usual,  I fell  lame  on  the  walk,  and  had  to  limp 
home  dead  lame,  through  the  snow,  for  the  last 
three  miles — to  the  remarkable  terror,  by-the- 
bye,  of  the  two  big  dogs.”  The  dogs  were  Turk 
and  Linda.  Boisterous  companions  as  they  al- 
ways were,  the  sudden  change  in  him  brought 
them  to  a stand-still ; and  for  the  rest  of  the 
journey  they  crept  by  the  side  of  their  master  as 
slowly  as  he  did,  never  turning  from  him.  He 
was  greatly  moved  by  the  circumstance,  and 
often  referred  to  it.  IMrk’s  look  upward  to  his 
face  was  one  of  sympathy  as  well  as  fear,  he 
said  ; but  Linda  was  wholly  struck  down. 

The  saying  in  his  letter  to  his  youngest  son 
that  he  was  to  do  to  others  what  he  would  that 
they  should  do  to  him,  without  being  discouraged 
if  they  did  not  do  it ; and  his  saying  to  the  Bir- 
mingham people  that  they  were  to  attend  to  self- 
improvement  not  because  it  led  to  fortune,  but 
because  it  was  right ; express  a principle  that  at 
all  times  guided  himself.  Capable  of  strong 
attachments,  he  was  not  what  is  called  an  effu- 
sive man  ; but  he  had  no  half-heartedness  in 
any  of  his  likings.  The  one  thing  entirely  hate- 
ful to  him,  was  indifference.  “ I give  my  heart 
to  very  few  people ; but  I would  sooner  love 
the  most  implacable  man  in  the  world  than  a 
careless  one,  who,  if  ray  place  were  empty  to- 
morrow, would  rub  on  and  never  miss  me.” 
There  was  nothing  he  more  repeatedly  told  his 
children  than  that  they  were  not  to  let  indifference 
in  others  appear  to  justify  it  in  themselves.  “ All 
kind  things,”  he  wrote,  “ must  be  done  on  their 
own  account,  and  for  their  own  sake,  and  with- 
out the  least  reference  to  any  gratitude.”  Again 
he  laid  it  down,  while  he  was  making  some  exer- 
tion for  the  sake  of  a dead  friend  that  did  not 
seem  likely  to  win  ])roper  appreciation  from 
those  it  was  to  serve.  “ As  to  gratitude  from 
the  family — as  I have  often  remarked  to  you, 
one  does  a generous  thing  because  it  is  right 
and  pleasant,  and  not  for  any  response  it  is  to 
awaken  in  others.”  Tlie  rule  in  another  form 
frequently  appears  in  his  letters  ; and  it  was 


enforced  in  many  ways  upon  all  who  were  dear 
to  him.  It  is  worth  while  to  add  his  comment 
on  a regret  of  a member  of  his  family  at  an  act 
of  self-devotion  supposed  to  have  been  thrown 
away : “ Nothing  of  what  is  nobly  done  can 
ever  be  lost.”  It  is  also  to  be  noted  as  in  the 
same  spirit,  that  it  was  not  the  loud  but  the 
silent  heroisms  he  most  admired.  Of  Sir  John 
Richardson,  one  of  the  few  who  have  lived  in 
our  days  entitled  to  the  name  of  a hero,  he 
wrote  from  Paris  in  1856.  “ Lady  Franklin 

sent  me  the  whole  of  that  Richardson  memoir ; 
and  I- think  Richardson’s  manly  friendship,  and 
love  of  Franklin,  one  of  the  noblest  things  I 
ever  knew  in  my  life.  It  makes  one’s  heart  beat 
high,  with  a sort  of  sacred  joy.”  (It  is  the  feeling 
as  strongly  awakened  by  the  earlier  exploits  of 
the  same  gallant  man  to  be  found  at  the  end  of 
Franklin’s  first  voyage,  and  never  to  be  read 
witliout  the  most  exalted  emotion.)  It  was  for 
something  higher  than  mere  literature  he  valued 
the  most  original  writer  and  powerful  teacher  of 
the  age.  “ I would  go  at  all  times  farther  to  see 
Carlyle  than  any  man  alive.” 

Of  his  attractive  points  in  society  and  conver- 
sation I have  particularized  little,  because  in 
truth  they  were  himself.  Such  as  they  were, 
they  were  never  absent  from  him.  His  acute 
sense  of  enjoyment  gave  such  relish  to  his  social 
qualities  that  probably  no  man,  not  a great  wit 
or  a professed  talker,  ever  left,  in  leaving  any 
social  gathering,  a blank  so  impossible  to  fill  up. 
In  quick  and  varied  sympathy,  in  ready  adapta- 
tion to  every  whim  or  humour,  to  help  in  any 
mirth  or  game,  he  stood  for  a dozen  men.  If  one 
may  say  such  a thing,  he  seemed  always  to  be  the 
more  himself  for  being  somebody  else,  for  con- 
tinually putting  off  his  personality.  His  versa- 
tility made  him  unique.  What  he  said  once  of 
his  own  love  of  acting,  applied  to  him  equally 
when  at  his  happiest  among  friends  he  loved ; 
sketching  a character,  telling  a story,  acting  a 
charade,  taking  part  in  a game  ; turning  into 
comedy  an  incident  of  the  day,  describing  the 
last  good  or  bad  thing  he  had  seen,  reproducing 
in  quaint,  tragical,  or  humorous  form  and 
figure,  some  part  of  the  passionate  life  with 
which  all  his  being  overflowed.  “Assumption 
has  charms  for  me  so  delightful — I hardly  know 
for  how  many  wild  reasons — that  I feel  a loss  of 
Oh  I can’t  say  what  exquisite  foolery,  when  I 
lose  a chance  of  being  some  one  not  in  the 
remotest  degree  like  myself.”  How  it  was,  that, 
from  one  of  such  boundless  resource  in  contri- 
buting to  the  pleasure  of  his  friends,  there  was 
yet,  as  I have  said,  so  comixaratively  little  to 
bring  away,  may  be  thus  e.xplained.  But  it  has 


PERSONAL  CHARACTERISTICS.  427  | 

been  also  seen  that  no  one  at  times  said  better 
things,  and  to  happy  examples  formerly  given  I 
■will  add  one  or  two  of  a kind  he  more  rarely 
indulged.  “ He  is  below  par  on  the  Exchange,” 
a friend  remarked  of  a notorious  puffing  actor; 
“ he  doesn’t  stand  well  at  Lloyd’s.”  “ Yet  no 
one  stands  so  well  with  the  underwriters,”  said 
Dickens ; a pun  that  Swift  would  have  envied. 
“ I call  him  an  incubus  ! ” said  a non-literary 
friend,  at  a loss  to  express  the  boredom  inflicted 
on  him  by  a popular  author.  “ Pen-and-ink- 
ubus,  you  mean,”  interposed  Dickens.  So, 
when  Stanfield  said  of  his  midshipman  son,  then 
absent  on  his  first  cruise,  “ your  boy  has  got  his 
sea-legs  on  by  this  time!”  “I  don’t  know,” 
remarked  Dickens,  “ about  his  getting  his  sea- 
legs  on ; but  if  I may  judge  from  his  writing,  he 
certainly  has  not  got  his  ABC  legs  on.” 

Other  agreeable  pleasantries  might  be  largely 
cited  from  his  letters.  “ An  old  priest  ” (he 
wrote  from  France  in  1862),  “ the  express  image 
of  Frederic  Lemaitre  got  up  for  the  part,  and 
very  cross  with  the  toothache,  told  me  in  a rail- 
way carriage  the  other  day,  that  we  had  no 
antiquities  in  heretical  England.  ‘ None  at  all  ?’ 
I said.  ‘ You  have  some  ships,  however.’ 
‘Yes;  a few.’  ‘Are  they  strong?’  ‘Well,’ 
said  I,  ‘ your  trade  is  spiritual,  my  father ; ask 
the  ghost  of  Nelson.’  A French  captain  who 
was  in  the  carriage  was  immensely  delighted 
with  this  small  joke.  I met  him  at  Calais  yes- 
terday going  somewhere  with  a detachment ; 
and  he  said — Pardon  ! But  he  had  been  so 
limited  as  to  suppose  an  Englishman  incapable 
of  that  bonhommie  ! ” In  humouring  a joke  he 
was  excellent,  both  in  letters  and  talk ; and  for 
this  kind  of  enjoyment  his  least  important  little 
notes  are  often  worth  preserving.  Take  one 
small  instance.  So  freely  had  he  admired  a tale 
told  by  his  friend  and  solicitor  Mr.  Frederic 
Ouvry,  that  he  had  to  reply  to  a humorous  pro- 
posal for  publication  of  it,  in  his  own  manner,  in 
his  own  periodical.  “ Your  modesty  is  equal  to 

your  merit I think  your  way  of  describ- 

ing  that  rustic  courtship  in  middle  life,  quite 

matchless A cheque  for  _;^iooo  is  lying 

with  the  publisher.  We  would  willingly  make 
it  more,  but  that  we  find  our  law  charges  so 
exceedingly  heavy.”  His  letters  have  also 
examples  now  and  then  of  what  he  called  his 
conversational  triumphs.  “ I have  distingui.shed 
myself”  (28th  of  April  1861)  “in  two  respects 
lately.  I took  a young  lady,  unknown,  down  to 
dinner,  and  talking  to  her  about  the  Bishop  of 
Durham’s  Nepotism  in  the  matter  of  Mr.  Cheese, 
I found  she  was  Mrs.  Cheese.  And  I e.xpa- 
tiated  to  the  member  for  Marylebone,  Lord 

! 

Fermoy,  generally  conceiving  him  to  be  an  Irish 
member,  on  the  contemptible  character  of  the 
Marylebone  constituency  and  Marylebone  re- 
presentation.” 

Among  his  good  things  should  not  be  omitted 
his  telling  of  a ghost  story.  He  had  something 
of  a hankering  after  them,  as  the  readers  of  his 
briefer  pieces  will  know;  and  such  was  his 
interest  generally  in  things  supernatural,  that, 
but  for  the  strong  restraining  power  of  his  com- 
mon sense,  he  might  have  fallen  into  the  follies 
of  spiritualism.  As  it  was,  no  man  was  readier 
to  apply  sharp  tests  to  such  a ghost  narrative  as 
will  be  found,  for  example,  in  the  125th  number 
of  All  the  Year  Round,  which  before  its  publica- 
tion both  Mr.  Layard  and  myself  saw  at  Gads- 
hill,  and  identified  as  one  related  by  Lord 
Lytton.  It  was  published  in  September,  and 
a day  or  two  afterwards  Dickens  wrote  to 
Lytton  : “ The  artist  himself  who  is  the  hero  of 
that  story  has  sent  me  in  black  and  white  his 
own  account  of  the  whole  experience,  so  very 
original,  so  very  extraordinary,  so  very  far  beyond 
the  version  I have  published,  that  all  other  like 
stories  turn  pale  before  it.”  The  ghost  thus  re- 
inforced came  out  in  the  number  published  on 
the  5th  of  October ; and  the  reader  who  cares  . 
to  turn  to  it,  and  compare  what  Dickens  in  the  ; 
interval  (17th  of  September)  wrote  to  myself,  1 
will  have  some  measure  of  his  readiness  to  be-  | 
lieve  in  such  thingsT  “ Upon  the  publication  of  i 
the  ghost  story,  up  has  started  the  portrait- 
painter  who  saw  the  phantoms  ! He  had  been, 
it  seems,  engaged  to  write  his  adventure  else- 
where as  a story  for  Christmas,  and  not  un- 
naturally supposed,  when  he  saw  himself  antici- 
pated by  us,  that  there  had  been  treachery  at  i 
his  printer’s.  ‘ In  particular,’  says  he,  ‘ how 
else  was  it  possible  that  the  date,  the  13th  of  i 
September,  could  have  been  got  at  ? For  I 
never  told  the  date,  until  I wrote  it.’  Now,  iny 
story  had  no  date  ; but  seeing,  when  I looked 
over  the  proof,  the  great  importance  of  having  a 
date,  I (C.  D.)  wrote  in,  unconsciously,  the 
exact  date  on  the  margin  of  the  proof ! ” The 
reader  will  remember  the  Doncaster  race  story ; 
and  to  other  like  illustrations  of  the  subject 
already  given,  may  be  added  this  dream.  “ Here 
is  a curious  case  at  first-hand  ” (30th  of  May 
1863).  “ On  Thursday  night  in  last  week, 

being  at  the  office  here,  I dreamed  that  I saw  a 
lady  in  a red  shawl  with  her  back  towards  me 
(whom  I supposed  to  be  E.).  On  her  turning 
round  I found  that  I didn’t  know  her,  and  she 
said  ‘ I am  Miss  Napier.’  All  the  time  I was 
dressing  next  morning,  I thought — What  a pre- 
posterous thing  to  have  so  very  distinct  a dream 

j 

42i 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


about  nothing!  and  why  Miss  Napier?  Fori 
never  heard  of  any  Miss  Napier.  That  same 
Friday  night,  I read.  After  the  reading,  came 
into  my  retiring-room,  Mary  Boyle  and  her 
brother,  and  f/ie  Lady  in  the  red  shawl  whom  they 
present  as  ‘ Miss  Napier  ! ’ These  are  all  the 
circumstances,  exactly  told.” 

Another  kind  of  dream  has  had  previous 
record,  with  no  superstition  to  build  itself  upon 
but  the  loving  devotion  to  one  tender  memory. 
With  longer  or  shorter  intervals  this  was  with 
him  all  his  days.  Never  from  his  waking 
thoughts  was  the  recollection  altogether  absent ; 
and  though  the  dream  would  leave  him  for  a 
time,  it  unfailingly  came  back.  It  was  the 
feeling  of  his  life  that  always  had  a mastery  over 
him.  What  he  said  on  the  sixth  anniversary  of 
the  death  of  his  sister-in-law,  that  friend  of  his 
youth  whom  he  had  made  his  ideal  of  all  moral 
excellence,  he  might  have  said  as  truly  after 
twenty-six  years  more ; for  in  the  very  year 
before  he  died,  the  influence  was  potently  upon 
him.  “ She  is  so  much  in  my  thoughts  at  all 
times,  especially  when  I am  successful,  and  have 
greatly  prospered  in  anything,  that  the  recollec- 
tion of  herds  an  essential  part  of  my  being,  and 
is  as  inseparable  from  my  existence  as  the  beat- 
ing of  my  heart  is.”  Through  later  troubled 
years,  whatever  was  worthiest  in  him  found  in 
this  an  ark  of  safety  ; and  it  was  the  nobler  part 
of  his  being  which  had  thus  become  also  the 
essential.  It  gave  to  success  what  success  by 
itself  had  no  power  to  give ; and  nothing  could 
consist  with  it,  for  any  length  of  time,  that  was 
not  of  good  report  and  pure.  What  more  could 
I say  that  was  not  better  said  from  the  pulpit 
of  the  Abbey  where  he  rests  ? 


“ He  whom  we  mourn  was  the  friend  of  man- 
kind, a philanthropist  in  the  true  sense;  the 
friend  of  youth,  the  friend  of  the  poor,  the  enemy 
of  every  form  of  meanness  and  oppression.  I 
am  not  going  to  attempt  to  draw  a portrait  of 
him.  Men  of  genius  are  different  from  what  we 
suppose  them  to  be.  They  have  greater  plea- 
sures and  greater  pains,  greater  affections  and 
greater  temptations,  than  the  generality  of  man- 
kind, and  they  can  never  be  altogether  under- 
stood by  their  fellow  men But  we  feel 

that  a light  has  gone  out,  that  the  world  is 
darker  to  us,  when  they  depart.  There  are  so 
very  few  of  them  that  we  cannot  afford  to  lose 
them  one  by  one,  and  we  look  vainly  round  for 
others  who  may  supply  their  places.  He  whose 
loss  we  now  mourn  occupied  a greater  space 
than  any  other  writer  in  the  minds  of  English- 
men during  the  last  thirty-three  years.  We  read 
him,  talked  about  him,  acted  him ; we  laughed 
with  him ; we  were  roused  by  him  to  a con- 
sciousness of  the  misery  of  others,  and  to  a 
pathetic  interest  in  human  life.  Works  of  fiction, 
indirectly,  are  great  instructors  of  this  world ; 
and  we  can  hardly  exaggerate  the  debt  of  grati- 
tude which  is  due  to  a writer  who  has  led  us 
to  sympathize  with  these  good,  true,  sincere, 
honest,  English  characters  of  ordinary  life,  and 
to  laugh  at  the  egotism,  the  hypocrisy,  the 
false  respectability  of  religious  professors  and 
others.  To  another  great  humourist  who  lies 
in  this  Church  the  words  have  been  applied 
that  his  death  eclipsed  the  gaiety  of  nations. 
But  of  him  who  has  been  recently  taken  I 
would  rather  say,  in  humbler  language,  that 
no  one  was  ever  so  much  beloved  or  so  much 
mourned.” 


BOOK  TWELFTH.— THE  CLOSE. 
1870.  HIt.  58. 


I.  Last  Days. 


II.  Westminster  Abbey. 


I. 

LAST  DAYS. 
1869 — 1870. 


The  summer  and  autumn  of  1869  were  passed 
quietly  at  Gadshill.  He  received  there, 
in  June,  the  American  friends  to  whom  he  had 
been  most  indebted  for  unwearying  domestic 


kindness  at  his  most  trying  time  in  the  States. 
In  August  he  was  at  the  dinner  of  the  Inter- 
national boat-race ; and,  in  a speech  that  might 
have  gone  far  to  reconcile  the  victors  to 
changing  places  with  the  vamiuished,  gave  the 
health  of  the  Harvard  and  tlie  Oxford  crews. 
He  went  to  Birmingham,  in  September,  to 
fulfil  a promise  that  he  would  open  tlie  session 
of  the  Institute ; and  there,  after  telling  his 


LAST  DAYS. 


429 


audience  that  his  invention,  such  as  it  was, 
never  would  have  served  him  as  it  had  done,  but 
for  the  habit  of  commonplace,  patient,  drudging 
attention,  he  declared  his  political  creed  to  be 
infinitesimal  faith  in  the  people  governing  and 
illimitable  faith  in  the  People  governed.  In 
such  engagements  as  these,  with  nothing  of  the 
kind  of  strain  he  had  most  to  dread,  there  was 
hardly  more  movement  or  change  than  was 
necessary  to  his  enjoyment  of  rest. 


He  had  been  able  to  show  Mr.  Fields  some- 
thing of  the  interest  of  London  as  well  as  of  his 
Kentish  home.  He  went  over  its  general  post- 
office  with  him,  took  him  among  its  cheap 
theatres  and  poor  lodging-houses,  and  piloted 
him  by  night  through  its  most  notorious  thieves’ 
quarter.  Its  localities  that  are  pleasantest  to  a 
lover  of  books,  such  as  Johnson’s  Bolt-court  and 
Goldsmith’s  Temple-chambers,  he  explored  with 
him ; and  at  his  visitor’s  special  request,  mounted 


a staircase  he  had  not  ascended  for  more  than 
thirty  years,  to  show  the  chamber  in  FurnivaFs 
Inn  where  the  first  page  of  Pickiuick  was  written. 
One  more  book,  unfinished,  was  to  close  what 
that  famous  book  began  ; and  the  original  of  the 
j scene  of  its  opening  chapter,  the  opium-eater’s 
I den,  was  the  last  place  visited.  “ In  a miserable 
I court  at  night,”  says  Mr.  Fields,  “we  found  a 
haggard  old  woman  blowing  at  a kind  of  pipe 
made  of  an  old  ink-bottle ; and  the  words  that 
j Dickens  puts  into  the  mouth  of  this  wretched 


creature  in  Edwin  Erood,  we  heard  her  croon 
as  we  leaned  over  the  tattered  bed  in  which  she 
was  lying.” 

Before  beginning  his  novel  he  had  written  his 
last  paper  for  his  weekly  publication.  It  was  a 
notice  of  my  Life  of  Landor,  and  contained  some 
interesting  recollections  of  that  remarkable  man. 
His  memory  at  this  time  dwelt  much,  as  was 
only  natural,  with  past  pleasant  time,  as  he  saw 
familiar  faces  leaving  us  or  likely  to  leave ; and, 
on  the  death  of  one  of  the  comedians  associated 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


43° 


with  the  old  bright  days  of  Covent  Garden,  I 
had  intimation  of  a fancy  that  had  never  quitted 
him  since  the  Cheltenham  reading.  “ I see  in 
the  paper  to-day  that  Meadows  is  dead.  I had 
a talk  with  him  at  Coutts’s  a week  or  two  ago, 
when  he  said  he  was  seventy-five  and  very  weak. 
Except  for  having  a tearful  eye,  he  looked  just 
the  same  as  ever.  My  mind  still  constantly 
misgives  me  concerning  Macready.  Curiously, 
I don’t  think  he  has  been  ever,  for  ten  minutes 
together,  out  of  my  thoughts  since  I talked  with 
hleadows  last.  Well,  the  year  that  brings 
trouble  brings  comfort  too  : I have  a great  suc- 
cess in  the  boy-line  to  announce  to  you.  Harry 
has  won  the  second  scholarship  at  Trinity  Hall, 
which  gives  him  ^50  a year  as  long  as  he  stays 
there ; and  I begin  to  hope  that  he  wilt  get  a 
fellowship.”  I doubt  if  anything  ever  more  truly 
pleased  him  than  this  little  success  of  his  son 
Henry  at  Cambridge.  Henry  missed  the  fellow- 
ship, but  was  twenty-ninth  wrangler  in  a fair 
year,  when  the  wranglers  were  over  forty. 

Ele  finished  his  first  number  of  Edwin  Drood 
in  the  third  week  of  October,  and  on  the  26th 
read  it  at  my  house  with  great  spirit.  A few 
nights  before  we  had  seen  together  at  the 
Olympic  a little  drama  taken  from  his  Copper- 
field,  which  he  sat  out  with  more  than  patience, 
even  with  something  of  enjoyment ; and  another 
pleasure  was  given  him  that  night  by  its  author, 
Mr.  Halliday,  who  brought  into  the  box  another 
dramatist,  Mr.  Robertson,  to  whom  Dickens, 
who  then  first  saw  him,  said  that  to  himself  the 
charm  of  his  little  comedies  was  “ their  unas- 
suming form,”  which  had  so  happily  shown  that 
“ real  wit  could  afford  to  put  off  any  airs  of  pre- 
tension to  it.”  He  was  at  Gadshill  till  the  close 
of  the  year ; coming  up  for  a few  special  occa- 
sions, such  as  Procter’s  eighty-second  birthday ; 
and  at  my  house  on  new-year’s  eve  he  read  to 
us  a fresh  number  of  his  Edwin  Drood.  Yet 
these  very  last  days  of  December  had  not  been 
without  a reminder  of  the  grave  warnings  of 
April.  The  pains  in  somewhat  modified  form 
had  returned  in  both  his  left  hand  and  his  left 
foot  a few  days  before  we  met ; and  they  were 
troubling  him  still  on  that  day.  But  he  made 
so  light  of  them  liimself ; so  little  tliought  of 
connecting  them  with  the  uncertainties  of  touch 
and  tread  of  which  they  were  really  part ; and 
read  with  suclr  an  overflow  of  humour  Mr. 
Iloneythunder’s  boisterous  philanthropy ; that 
there  was  no  room,  then,  for  anything  but  enjoy- 
ment. Plis  only  allusion  to  an  effect  from  his 
illness  was  his  mention  of  a now  invincible  dis- 
like which  he  had  to  railway  travel.  This  had 
decided  him  to  take  a London  house  for  the 


twelve  last  readings  in  the  early  months  of  1870, 
and  he  had  become  Mr.  Milner  Gibson’s  tenant 
at  5,  Hyde  Park  Place. 

St.  James’s  Hall  was  to  be  the  scene  of  these 
Readings,  and  they  were  to  occupy  the  interval 
from  the  nth  of  January  to  the  15th  of  March; 
two  being  given  in  each  week  to  the  close  of 
January,  and  the  remaining  eight  on  each  of  the 
eight  Tuesdays  following.  Nothing  was  said  of 
any  kind  of  apprehension  as  the  time  approached ; ! 
but,  with  a curious  absence  of  the  sense  of  | 
danger,  there  was  certainly  both  distrust  and 
fear.  Sufficient  precaution  Avas  supposed  to 
have  been  taken  by  arrangement  for  the  pre- 
sence, at  each  reading,  of  his  friend  and  medical 
attendant,  Mr.  F.  C.  Beard ; but  this  resolved 
itself,  not  into  any  measure  of  safety,  the  case 
admitting  of  none  short  of  stopping  the  reading 
altogether,  but  simply  into  ascertainment  of  the 
exact  amount  of  strain  and  pressure,  A\diich,  Avith 
every  fresh  exertion,  he  AA'as  placing  on  those 
vessels  of  the  brain  Avhere  the  Preston  trouble 
too  surely  had  revealed  that  danger  lay.  No 
supposed  force  in  reserve,  no  dominant  strength 
of  Avill,  can  turn  aside  the  penalties  sternly 
exacted  for  disregard  of  such  laAvs  of  life  as  Avere 
here  plainly  overlooked;  and  though  no  one 
may  say  that  it  AA'as  not  already  too  late  for  any 
but  the  fatal  issue,  there  Avill  be  no  presumption 
in  believing  that  life  might  yet  have  been  for 
some  time  prolonged  if  these  readings  could 
have  been  stopped. 

“ I am  a little  shaken,”  he  Avrote  on  the  9th 
of  January,  “by  my  journey  to  Birmingham  to 
give  aAvay  the  Institution  prizes  on  TAA'elfth 
Night,  but  I am  in  good  heart ; and,  notAvith- 
standing  Lowe’s  Avorrying  scheme  for  collecting 
a year’s  taxes  in  a lump,  Avhich  they  tell  me  is 
damaging  books,  pictures,  music,  and  theatres 
beyond  precedent,  our  ‘ let  ’ at  St.  James’s  Hall 
is  enormous.”  He  opened  Avith  Coppcrfield  and 
the  Pickwick  Trial ; and  I may  brielly  mention, 
from  the  notes  taken  by  Mr.  Beard  and  placed 
at  my  disposal,  at  Avhat  cost  of  exertion  to  him- 
self he  gratified  the  crowded  audiences  that 
then  and  to  the  close  matle  these  evenings 
memorable.  His  ordinary  pulse  on  the  first 
night  Avas  at  72  ; but  never  on  any  subsequent 
niglit  Avas  loAver  than  82,  and  Iiad  risen  on  the  later 
nights  to  more  than  100.  After  Coppcrfield  on 
the  first  night  it  Avent  up  to  96,  and  after  PPari- 
gold  on  the  second  to  99  ; but  on  the  first  night 
of  the  Sikes  and  KPancy  scenes  (Friday  the  21st 
of  January)  it  Avent  from  80  to  112,  and  on  the 
second  niglit  (the  ist  of  Imbruary)  to  t 18.  from 
tliis,  througli  tlie  six  remaining  niglits,  it  never 
Avas  loAver  than  no  after  the  first  piece  read; 


ZAST  DA  YS. 


431 


and  after  the  third  and  fourth  readings  of  the 
Oliver  2 wist  scenes  it  rose,  from  90  to  124  on 
the  15th  of  February,  and  from  94  to  120  on  the 
Sth  of  ]\Iarch;  on  the  former  occasion,  after 
twenty  minutes’  rest,  falling  to  98,  and  on  the 
latter,  after  fifteen  minutes’  rest,  falling  to  82. 
His  ordinary  pulse  on  entering  the  room,  during 
these  last  six  nights,  was  more  than  once  over 
100,  and  never  lower  than  84;  from  which  it 
rose,  after  Nickkby  on  the  22nd  of  February,  to 
1 12.  On  the  8th  of  February,  when  he  read 
Dombey,  it  had  risen  from  91  to  114;  on  the  ist 
of  March,  after  Copperfield,  it  rose  from  100  to 
124 ; and  when  he  entered  the  room  on  the  last 
night  it  was  at  108,  having  risen  only  two  beats 
more  when  the  reading  was  done.  The  pieces 
on  this  occasion  were  the  Christinas  Carol,  fol- 
lowed by  the  Pickwick  Trial ; and  probably  in 
all  his  life  he  never  read  so  well.  On  his  return 
from  the  States,  where  he  had  to  address  his 
effects  to  audiences  composed  of  immense  num- 
bers of  people,  a certain  loss  of  refinement  had 
been  observable ; but  the  old  delicacy  was  now 
again  delightfully  manifest,  and  a subdued  tone, 
as  w'ell  in  the  humorous  as  the  serious  portions, 
gave  something  to  all  the  reading  as  of  a quiet 
sadness  of  farewell.  The  charm  of  this  was  at 
its  height  when  he  shut  the  volume  of  Pickwick 
and  spoke  in  his  own  person.  He  said  that  for 
fifteen  years  he  had  been  reading  his  own  books 
to  audiences  whose  sensitive  and  kindly  recogni- 
tion of  them  had  given  him  instruction  and 
enjoyment  in  his  art  such  as  few  men  could 
have  had ; but  that  he  nevertheless  thought  it 
well  now  to  retire  upon  older  associations,  and 
in  future  to  devote  himself  exclusively  to  the 
calling  which  had  first  made  him  known.  “ In 
but  two  short  weeks  from  this  time  I hope  that 
you  may  enter,  in  your  own  homes,  on  a new 
series  of  readings  at  which  my  assistance  will  be 
indispensable ; but  from  these  garish  lights  I 
vanish  now  for  evermore,  with  a heartfelt,  grate- 
ful, respectful,  affectionate  farewell.”  The  brief 
hush  of  silence  as  he  moved  from  the  platform  ; 
and  the  prolonged  tumult  of  sound  that  followed 
suddenly,  stayed  him,  and  again  for  another 
moment  brought  him  back  ; will  not  be  forgotten 
by  any  present. 

Little  remains  to  be  told  that  has  not  in  it 
almost  unmixed  pain  and  sorrow.  Hardly  a day 
passed,  while  the  readings  went  on  or  after  they 
closed,  unvisited  by  some  effect  or  other  of  the  dis- 
astrous excitement  shown  by  the  notes  of  Mr. 
Beard.  On  the  23rd  of  January,  when  for  the  last 
time  he  met  Carlyle,  he  came  to  us  with  his  left 
hand  in  a sling ; on  the  7th  of  February,  when  he 
passed  with  us  his  last  birthday,  and  on  the  25  th, 


when  he  read  the  third  number  of  his  novel,  the 
hand  was  still  swollen  and  painful ; and  on  the 
2ist  of  March,  when  he  read  admirably  his  fourth 
number,  he  told  us  that  as  he  came  along,  walk- 
ing up  the  length  of  Oxford-street,  the  same  in- 
cident had  occurred  as  on  the  day  of  a former 
dinner  with  us,  and  he  had  not  been  able  to 
read,  all  the  way,  more  than  the  right-hand  half 
of  the  names  over  the  shops.  Yet  he  had  the  old 
fixed  persuasion  that  this  was  rather  the  effect  of 
a medicine  he  had  been  taking  than  of  any  grave 
cause,  and  he  still  strongly  believed  his  other 
troubles  to  be  exclusively  local.  Eight  days 
later  he  wrote  ; “ My  uneasiness  and  hemor- 
rhage, after  having  quite  left  me,  as  I supposed, 
has  come  back  with  an  aggravated  irritability 
that  it  has  not  yet  displayed.  You  have  no  idea 
what  a state  I am  in  to-day  from  a sudden 
violent  rush  of  it ; and  yet  it  has  not  the  slightest 
effect  on  my  general  health  that  I know  of.” 
This  was  a disorder  which  troubled  him  in  his 
earlier  life ; and  during  the  last  five  years,  in  his 
intervals  of  suffering  from  other  causes,  it  had 
from  time  to  time  taken  aggravated  form. 

His  last  public  appearances  were  in  April. 
On  the  5th  he  took  the  chair  for  the  news- 
vendors, whom  he  helped  with  a genial  address 
in  which  even  his  apology  for  little  speaking 
overflowed  with  irrepressible  humour.  He  would 
try,  he  said,  like  Falstaff,  “ Iput  with  a modifica- 
tion almost  as  large  as  himself,”  less  to  speak 
himself  than  to  be  the  cause  of  speaking  in 
others.  “ Much  in  this  manner  they  exhibit  at 
the  door  of  a snuff-shop  the  effigy  of  a High- 
lander with  an  empty  mull  in  his  hand,  who, 
apparently  having  taken  all  the  snuff  he  can 
carry,  and  discharged  all  the  sneezes  of  which 
he  is  capable,  politely  invites  his  friends  and 
patrons  to  step  in  and  try  what  they  can  do  in 
the  same  line.”  On  the  30th  of  the  same  month 
he  returned  thanks  for  “ Literature  ” at  the  Royal 
Academy  dinner,  and  I may  preface  my  allusion 
to  what  he  then  said  with  what  he  had  written 
to  me  the  day  before.  Three  days  earlier  Daniel 
Maclise  had  passed  away.  “ Like  you  at  Ely, 
so  I at  Higham,  had  the  shock  of  first  reading 
at  a railway  station  of  the  death  of  our  old  dear 
friend  and  companion.  What  the  shock  would 
be,  you  know  too  well.  It  has  been  only  after 
great  difficulty,  and  after  hardening  and  steeling 
myself  to  the  subject  by  at  once  thinking  of  it 
and  avoiding  it  in  a strange  way,  that  I have 
been  able  to  get  any  command  over  it  or  over 
myself.  If  I feel  at  the  time  that  I can 
be  sure  of  the  necessary  composure,  I shall 
make  a little  reference  to  it  at  the  Academy  to- 
morrow. I suppose  you  won’t  be  there.”  The 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICLIENS. 


432 


reference  made  was  most  touching  and  manly. 
He  told  those  who  listened  that  since  he  first 
entered  the  public  lists,  a very  young  man 
indeed,  it  had  been  his  constant  fortune  to  num- 
I ber  among  his  nearest  and  dearest  friends  mem- 
[ bers  of  that  Academy  who  had  been  its  pride ; 
and  who  had  now,  one  by  one,  so  dropped  from 
his  side  that  he  was  grown  to  believe,  with  the 
Spanish  monk  of  whom  Wilkie  spoke,  that  the 
only  realities  around  him  were  the  pictures 
which  he  loved,  and  all  the  moving  life  but  a 
shadow  and  a dream.  “ For  many  years  I was 
one  of  the  two  most  intimate  friends  and  most 
constant  companions  of  Mr.  Maclise,  to  whose 
death  the  Prince  of  Wales  has  made  allusion, 
and  the  President  has  referred  with  the  eloquence 
of  genuine  feeling.  Of  his  genius  in  his  chosen 
art,  I will  venture  to  say  nothing  here ; but  of 
his  fertility  of  mind  and  wealth  of  intellect  I may 
confidently  assert  that  they  would  have  made 
him,  if  he  had  been  so  minded,  at  least  as  great 
a writer  as  he  was  a painter.  The  gentlest  and 
most  modest  of  men,  the  freshest  as  to  his 
generous  appreciation  of  young  aspirants  and  the 
frankest  and  largest  hearted  as  to  his  peers,  in- 
capable of  a sordid  or  ignoble  thought,  gallantly 
sustaining  the  true  dignity  of  his  vocation,  with- 
out one  grain  of  self-ambition,  wholesomely 
natural  at  the  last  as  at  the  first,  ‘ in  wit  a man, 
simplicity  a child,’ — no  artist  of  whatsoever  de- 
nomination, I make  bold  to  say,  ever  went  to 
his  rest  leaving  a golden  memory  more  pure 
from  dross,  or  having  devoted  himself  with  a 
truer  chivalry  to  the  art-goddess  whom  he  wor- 
shipped.” These  were  the  last  public  words  of 
Dickens,  and  he  could  not  have  spoken  any 
worthier  of  himself,  or  better  deserved  than  by 
him  of  whom  they  were  spoken. 

Upon  his  appearance  at  the  dinner  of  the 
Academy  had  followed  some  invitations  he  was 
led  to  accept ; greatly  to  his  own  regret,  he  told 
me  on  the  night  (7th  of  May)  when  he  read  to 
us  the  5th  number  of  Edwin  Drood ; for  he  was 
now  very  eager  to  get  back  to  the  quiet  of  Gads- 
hill.  He  dined  with  Mr.  Motley,  then  American 
minister ; had  met  Mr.  Disraeli  at  a dinner  at 
Lord  Stanhope’s ; had  breakfasted  with  Mr. 
Gladstone;  and  on  the  17th  was  to  attend  the 
Queen’s  ball  with  his  daughter.  But  she  had  to 
go  there  without  him  ; for  on  the  i6th  I had  inti- 
mation of  a sudden  disablement.  “ I am  sorry 
to  report,  that,  in  the  old  preposterous  endeavour 
to  dine  at  preposterous  hours  and  preposterous 
places,  I have  been  pulled  up  by  a sharp  attack 
I in  my  foot.  And  serve  me  right.  I hope  to 
get  the  better  of  it  soon,  but  1 fear  I must  not 
think  of  dining  with  you  on  Friday.  I have 


cancelled  everything  in  the  dining  way  for  this 
week,  and  that  is  a very  small  precaution  after 
tire  horrible  pain  I have  had  and  the  remedies 
I have  taken.”  He  had  to  excuse  himself  also 
from  the  General  Theatrical  Fund  dinner,  where 
the  Prince  of  Wales  was  to  preside ; but  at 
another  dinner  a week  later,  where  the  King  of 
the  Belgians  and  the  Prince  were  to  be  present, 
so  much  pressure  was  put  upon  him  that  he 
went,  still  suffering  as  he  was,  to  dine  with  Lord 
Houghton. 

We  met  for  the  last  time  on  Sunday  the  22nd 
of  May,  when  I dined  with  him  in  Hyde  Park 
Place.  The  death  of  Mr.  Lemon,  of  which  he 
heard  that  day,  had  led  his  thoughts  to  the 
crowd  of  friendly  companions  in  letters  and  art 
who  had  so  fallen  from  the  ranks  since  we  played 
Ben  Jonson  together  that  we  were  left  almost 
alone.  “ And  none  beyond  his  sixtieth  year,” 
he  said,  “ very  few  even  fifty.”  It  is  no  good  to 
talk  of  it,  I suggested.  “ We  shall  not  think  of 
it  the  less”  was  his  reply;  and  an  illustration 
much  to  the  point  was  before  us,  afforded  by  an 
incident  deserving  remembrance  in  his  story. 
Not  many  weeks  before,  a correspondent  had 
written  to  him  from  Liverpool  describing  him- 
self as  a self-raised  man,  attributing  his  pros- 
perous career  to  what  Dickens’s  writings  had 
taught  him  at  its  outset  of  the  wisdom  of  kind- 
ness, and  sympathy  for  others ; and  asking  pardon 
for  the  liberty  he  took  in  hoping  that  he  might 
be  permitted  to  offer  some  acknowledgment  of 
what  not  only  had  cheered  and  stimulated  him 
through  all  his  life,  but  had  contributed  so  much 
to  the  success  of  it.  The  letter  enclosed  ;^5oo. 
Dickens  was  greatly  touched  by  this ; and  told 
the  writer,  in  sending  back  his  cheque,  that  he 
would  certainly  have  taken  it  if  he  had  not 
been,  though  not  a man  of  fortune,  a prosperous 
man  himself ; but  that  the  letter,  and  the  spirit 
of  its  offer,  had  so  gratified  him,  that  if  the 
writer  pleased  to  send  him  any  small  memorial 
of  it  in  another  form  he  would  gladly  receive  it. 
The  memorial  soon  came.  A richly  worked 
basket  of  silver,  inscribed  “ from  one  who  has 
been  cheered  and  stimulated  by  Mr.  Dickens’s 
writings,  and  held  the  author  among  his  first 
remembrances  when  he  became  prosperous,” 
was  accompanied  by  an  extremely  handsome 
silver  centrepiece  for  the  table,  of  which  the 
design  was  for  figures  representing  the  Seasons. 
But  the  kindly  donor  shrank  from  sending  Winter 
to  one  whom  he  would  fain  connect  with  none 
save  the  brigirter  and  milder  days,  and  he  had 
struck  the  fourth  figure  from  the  design.  “ 1 
never  look  at  it,”  said  Dickens,  “ tliat  I don  t 
think  most  of  the  Winter.”  'Phe  gift  had  yet  too 


LAST  DAYS. 


surely  foreshadowed  the  truth,  for  the  winter  was 
never  to  come  to  him. 

A matter  discussed  that  day  with  Mr.  Ouvry 
was  briefly  resumed  in  a note  of  the  29th  of 
]\Iay,  the  last  1 ever  received  from  him ; which 
followed  me  to  Exeter,  and  closed  thus.  “ You 
and  I can  speak  of  it  at  Gads  by  and  by.  Foot 
no  worse.  But  no  better.”  The  old  trouble  was 
upon  him  when  we  j)arted,  and  this  must  have 
been  nearly  the  last  note  written  before  he 
quitted  London.  He  was  at  Gadshill  on  the 
30th  of  May ; and  I heard  no  more  until  the 
telegram  reached  me  at  Launceston  on  the  night 
of  the  9th  of  June,  which  told  me  that  the  “ by 
and  by  ” was  not  to  come  in  this  world. 

The  few  days  at  Gadshill  had  been  given 
wholly  to  work  on  his  novel.  He  had  been 
easier  in  his  foot  and  hand ; and  though  he  was 
suffering  severely  from  the  local  hemorrhage 
before  named,  he  made  no  complaint  of  illness. 
But  there  was  observed  in  him  a very  unusual 
appearance  of  fatigue.  “ He  seemed  very  weary.” 
He  was  out  with  his  dogs  for  the  last  time  on 
Monday  the  6th  of  June,  when  he  walked  with 
his  letters  into  Rochester.  On  Tuesday  the  7th, 
after  his  daughter  Mary  had  left  on  a visit  to  her 
sister  Kate,  not  finding  himself  equal  to  much 
fatigue,  he  drove  to  Cobham-wood  with  his 
sister-in-law,  there  dismissed  the  carriage,  and 
walked  round  the  park  and  back.  He  returned 
in  time  to  put  up  in  his  new  conservatory  some 
Chinese  lanterns  sent  from  London  that  after- 
noon ; and  the  whole  of  the  evening,  he  sat  with 
Miss  Hogarth  in  the  dining-room  that  he  might 
see  their  effect  when  lighted.  More  than  once 
he  then  expressed  his  satisfaction  at  having 
finally  abandoned  all  intention  of  exchanging 
Gadshill  for  London ; and  this  he  had  done 
more  impressively  some  days  before.  While  he 
lived,  he  said,  he  should  wish  his  name  to  be 
more  and  more  associated  with  the  place ; and 
he  had  a notion  that  when  he  died  he  should 
like  to  lie  in  the  little  graveyard  belonging  to 
the  Cathedral  at  the  foot  of  the  Castle  wall. 

On  the  8th  of  June  he  passed  all  the  day 
writing  in  the  Chalet.  He  came  over  for 
luncheon  ; and,  much  against  his  usual  custom, 
returned  to  his  desk.  Of  the  sentences  he  was 
then  writing,  the  last  of  his  long  life  of  litera- 
ture, a portion  has  been  given  in  facsimile  on  a 
previous  page  ; and  the  reader  will  observe  with 
a painful  interest,  not  alone  its  evidence  of 
minute  labour  at  this  fast-closing  hour  of  time 
with  him,  but  the  direction  his  thoughts  had 
taken.  He  imagines  such  a brilliant  morning 
as  had  risen  with  that  eighth  of  June  shining  on 
the  old  city  of  Rochester.  He  sees  in  surpassing 


433 


beauty,  with  the  lusty  ivy  gleaming  in  the  sun, 
and  the  rich  trees  waving  in  the  balmy  air,  its 
antiquities  and  its  ruins  ; its  Cathedral  and 
Castle.  But  his  fancy,  then,  is  not  with  the 
stern  dead  forms  of  either ; but  with  that  which 
makes  warm  the  cold  stone  tombs  of  centuries,, 
and  lights  them  up  with  flecks  of  brightness-, 

“ fluttering  there  like  wings.”  To  him,  on  that 
sunny  summer  morning,  the  changes  of  glorious 
light  from  moving  boughs,  the  songs  of  birds, 
the  scents  from  garden,  woods,  and  fields,  have 
penetrated  into  the  Cathedral,  have  subdued  its 
earthy  odour,  and  are  preaching  the  Resurrec- 
tion and  the  Life. 

He  was  late  in  leaving  the  Chalet ; but  before 
dinner,  which  was  ordered  at  six  o’clock  with 
the  intention  of  walking  afterwards  in  the  lanes,  j 
he  wrote  some  letters,  among  them  one  to  his 
friend  Mr.  Charles  Kent  appointing  to  see  him 
in  London  next  day ; and  dinner  was  begun 
before  Miss  Hogarth  saw,  with  alarm,  a singular- 
expression  of  trouble  and  pain  in  his  face.  “ For 
an  hour,”  he  then  told  her,  “ he  had  been  very 
ill,”  but  he  wished  dinner  to  go  on.  These  were 
the  only  really  coherent  words  uttered  by  him. 
They  were  followed  by  some,  that  fell  from  him 
disconnectedly,  of  quite  other  matters ; of  an 
approaching  sale  at  a neighbour’s  house,  of 
whether  Macready’s  son  was  with  his  father  at 
Cheltenham,  and  of  his  own  intention  to  go  im- 
mediately to  London ; but  at  these  latter  he  had 
risen,  and  his  sister-in-law’s  help  alone  prevented 
him  from  falling  where  he  stood.  Her  effort 
then  was  to  get  him  on  the  sofa,  but  after  a 
slight  struggle  he  sank  heavily  on  his  left  side. 

“ On  the  ground  ” were  the  last  words  he  spoke. 

It  was  now  a little  over  ten  minutes  past  six 
o’clock.  His  two  daughters  came  that  night 
with  Mr.  F.  Beard,  who  had  also  been  tele- 
graphed for,  and  whom  they  met  at  the  station. 
His  eldest  son  arrived  early  next  morning,  and 
was  joined  in  the  evening  (too  late)  by  his  1 
younger  son  from  Cambridge.  All  possible  i 

medical  aid  had  been  summoned.  The  surgeon 
of  the  neighbourhood  was  there  from  the  first, 
and  a physician  from  London  was  in  attendance 
as  well  as  Mr.  Beard.  But  human  help  was 
unavailing.  There  was  effusion  on  the  brain; 
and  though  stertorous  breathing  continued  all 
night,  and  until  ten  minutes  past  six  o’clock  on 
the  evening  of  Thursday  the  9th  of  June,  thei'e 
had  never  been  a gleam  of  hope  during  the 
twenty-four  hours.  He  had  lived  four  months 
beyond  his  58th  year. 


434 


THE  LIFE  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 


II. 


WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 

HE  excitement  and  sorrow  at  his 
death  are  within  the  memory  of  all. 
Before  the  news  of  it  even  reached 
the  remoter  parts  of  England,  it  had 
been  flashed  across  Europe ; was 
known  in  the  distant  continents  of  India, 
Australia,  and  America ; and  not  in 
English-speaking  communities  only,  but 
in  every  country  of  the  civilised  earth,  had 
awakened  grief  and  sympathy.  In  his  own  land 
it  was  as  if  a personal  bereavement  had  befallen 
every  one.  Her  Majesty  the  Queen  telegraphed 
from  Balmoral  “ her  deepest  regret  at  the  sad 
news  of  Charles  Dickens’s  death  ; ” and  this  was 
the  sentiment  alike  of  all  classes  of  her  people. 
There  was  not  an  English  journal  that  did  not 
give  it  touching  and  noble  utterance ; and  the 
Times  took  the  lead  in  suggesting  that  the  only 
fit  resting-place  for  the  remains  of  a man  so  dear 
to  England  was  the  Abbey  in  which  the  most 
illustrious  Englishmen  are  laid. 

With  the  expression  thus  given  to  a general 
wish,  the  Dean  of  Westminster  lost  no  time  in 
showing  ready  compliance ; and  on  the  morning 
of  the  day  when  it  appeared  was  in  communica- 
tion with  the  family  and  the  executors.  The 
public  homage  of  a burial  in  the  Abbey  had  to 
be  reconciled  with  his  own  instructions  to  be 
privately  buried  without  previous  announcement 
of  time  or  place,  and  without  monument  or 
memorial.  He  would  himself  have  preferred  to 
lie  in  the  small  graveyard  under  Rochester 
Castle  wall,  or  in  the  little  churches  of  Cobham 
or  Shorne ; but  all  these  were  found  to  be 
closed ; and  the  desire  of  the  Dean  and  Chairter 
of  Rochester  to  lay  him  in  their  Cathedral  had 
been  entertained,  when  the  Dean  of  West- 
minster’s request,  and  the  considerate  kindness 
of  his  generous  assurance  that  there  should  be 
only  such  ceremonial  as  would  strictly  obey  all 
injunctions  of  privacy,  made  it  a grateful  duty 


to  accept  that  offer.  The  spot  already  had  been 
chosen  by  the  Dean  ; and  before  midday  on  the 
following  morning,  Tuesday  the  14th  of  June, 
with  knowledge  of  those  only  who  took  part  in 
the  burial,  all  was  done.  The  solemnity  had 
not  lost  by  the  simplicity.  Nothing  so  grand  or 
so  touching  could  have  accompanied  it,  as  the 
stillness  and  the  silence  of  the  vast  Cathedral. 
Then,  later  in  the  day  and  all  the  folio wiirg  day, 
came  unbidden  mourners  in  such  crowds,  that 
the  Dean  had  to  request  permission  to  keep 
open  the  grave  until  Thursday ; but  after  it  was 
closed  they  did  not  cease  to  come,  arid  “ all  day 
long,”  Doctor  Stanley  wrote  on  the  17th,  “there 
was  a constant  pressure  to  the  spot,  and  many 
flowers  were  strewn  upon  it  by  unknown  hands, 
many  tears  shed  from  unknown  eyes.”  He 
alluded  to  this  in  the  impressive  funeral  dis- 
course delivered  by  him  in  the  Abbey  on  the 
morning  of  Sunday  the  19th,  pointing  to  the 
fresh  flowers  that  then  had  been  newly  thrown 
(as  they  still  are  thrown,  in  this  fourth  year  after 
the  death),  and  saying  that  “ the  spot  would 
thenceforward  be  a sacred  one  with  both  the  New 
World  and  the  Old,  as  that  of  the  representative 
of  the  literature,  not  of  this  island  only,  but  of 
all  who  speak  our  English  tongue.”  The  stone 
placed  upon  it  is  inscribed 

Charles  Dickens. 

Born  February  the  Seventh  1812.  Died 
June  the  Ninth  1S70. 

The  highest  associations  of  both  the  arts  he 
loved  surround  him  where  he  lies.  Next  to  him 
is  Richard  Cumberland.  Mrs.  Pritchard’s 
monument  looks  down  upon  him,  and  imme- 
diately behind  is  David  Garrick’s.  Nor  is  the 
actor’s  delightful  art  more  worthily  represented 
than  the  nobler  genius  of  the  author.  Facing 
the  grave,  and  on  its  left  and  riglit,  are  the  monu- 
ments of  Chaucer,  Shakespeare,  and  Dryden, 
the  three  immortals  who  did  most  to  create  ami 
settle  the  language  to  which  Charles  Dickens 
has  given  another  undying  name. 


APPENDIX 


THE  WILL  OF  CHARLES  DICKENS. 

I,  Charles  Dickens,  of  Gadshill  Place,  Higham  in  the  county  of  Kent,  hereby  revoke  all  my  former 
Wills  and  Codicils  and  declare  this  to  be  my  last  Will  and  Testament.  I give  the  sum  of^iooo  free  of 
legacy  duty  to  Miss  Ellen  Lawless  Ternan,  late  of  Houghton  Place,  Ampthill  Square,  in  the  county  of 
Middlese.x.  I give  the  sum  of  ^19  19  o to  my  faithful  servant  Mrs.  Anne  Cornelius.  I give  the  sum 
of  ^19  19  o to  the  daughter  and  only  child  of  the  said  Mrs.  Anne  Cornelius.  I GIVE  the  sum  of 

^19  19  o to  each  and  every  domestic  servant,  male  and  female,  who  shall  be  in  my  employment  at  the 

i time  of  my  decease,  and  shall  have  been  in  my  employment  for  a not  less  period  of  time  than  one  year. 

I I GIVE  the  sum  of  ^1000  free  of  legacy  duty  to  my  daughter  Mary  Dickens.  I also  give  to  my  said 

I daughter  an  annuity  of  ^300  a year,  during  her  life,  if  she  shall  so  long  continue  unmarried  ; such 
annuity  to  be  considered  as  accruing  from  day  to  day,  but  to  be  payable  half  yearly,  the  first  of  such 
half-yearly  payments  to  be  made  at  the  expiration  of  six  months  next  after  my  decease.  If  my  said 
daughter  Mary  shall  marry,  such  annuity  shall  cease  ; and  in  that  case,  but  in  that  case  only,  my  said 
daughter  shall  share  with  my  other  children  in  the  provision  hereinafter  made  for  them.  I GIVE  to  my  dear 
sister-in-law  Georgina  Hogarth  the  sum  of  ^8000  free  of  legacy  duty.  I also  give  to  the  said  Georgina 

j Hogarth  all  my  personal  jewellery  not  hereinafter  mentioned,  and  all  the  little  familiar  objects  from  my 

; writing-table  and  my  room,  and  she  will  know  what  to  do  with  those  things.  I ALSO  GIVE  to  the  said 
Georgina  Hogarth  all  my  private  papers  whatsoever  and  wheresoever,  and  I leave  her  my  grateful 
blessing  as  the  best  and  truest  friend  man  ever  had.  I GIVE  to  my  eldest  son  Charles  my  library  of 
printed  books,  and  my  engravings  and  prints  ; and  I also  give  to  my  son  Charles  the  silver  salver 
presented  to  me  at  Birmingham,  and  the  silver  cup  presented  to  me  at  Edinburgh,  and  my  shirt  studs, 
shirt  pins,  and  sleeve  buttons.  And  I bequeath  unto  my  said  son  Charles  and  my  son  Henry 
I Fielding  Dickens,  the  sum  of  jCSooo  upon  trust  to  invest  the  same,  and  from  time  to  time  to  vary  the 

1 investments  thereof,  and  to  pay  the  annual  income  thereof  to  my  wife  during  her  life,  and  after  her 

decease  the  said  sum  of  ;^8ooo  and  the  investments  thereof  shall  be  in  trust  for  my  children  (but  subject 
as  to  my  daughter  Mary  to  the  proviso  hereinbefore  contained)  who  being  a son  or  sons  shall  have 
attained  or  shall  attain  the  age  of  twenty-one  years,  or  being  a daughter  or  daughters  shall  have 
attained  or  shall  attain  that  age  or  be  previously  married,  in  equal  shares  if  more  than  one.  I give  my 
watch  (the  gold  repeater  presented  to  me  at  Coventry),  and  I give  the  chains  and  seals  and  all 
appendages  I have  worn  with  it,  to  my  dear  and  trusty  friend  John  Forster,  of  Palace  Gate  House, 
Kensington,  in  the  county  of  Middlesex  aforesaid;  and  I also  give  to  the  said  John  Forster  such 
manuscripts  of  my  published  works  as  may  be  in  my  possession  at  the  time  of  my  decease.  And  I 
devise  and  bequeath  all  my  real  and  personal  estate  (except  such  as  is  vested  in  me  as  a trustee  or 
mortgagee)  unto  the  said  Georgina  Hogarth  and  the  said  John  Forster,  their  heirs,  executors,  adminis- 
trators, and  assigns  respectively,  upon  trust  that  they  the  said  Georgina  Hogarth  and  John  Forster,  or 
the  survivor  of  them  or  the  executors  or  administrators  of  such  survivor,  do  and  shall,  at  their,  his,  or 
her  uncontrolled  and  irresponsible  direction,  either  proceed  to  an  immediate  sale  or  conversion  into 
money  of  the  said  real  and  personal  estate  (including  my  copyrights),  or  defer  and  postpone  any  sale  or 
conversion  into  money,  till  such  time  or  times  as  they,  he,  or  she  shall  think  fit,  and  in  the  meantime  may 
manage  and  let  the  said  real  and  personal  estate  (including  my  copyrights),  in  such  manner  in  all 
respects  as  I myself  could  do,  if  I were  living  and  acting  therein  ; it  being  my  intention  that  the  trustees 
; or  trustee  for  the  time  being  of  this  my  Will  shall  have  the  fullest  power  over  the  said  real  and  personal 
estate  which  I can  give  to  them,  him,  or  her.  And  I DECLARE  that,  until  the  said  real  and  personal 
estate  shall  be  sold  and  converted  into  money,  the  rents  and  annual  income  thereof  respectively  shall  be 
paid  and  applied  to  the  person  or  persons  in  the  manner  and  for  the  purposes  to  whom  and  for  which  the 
annual  income  of  the  monies  to  arise  from  the  sale  or  conversion  thereof  into  money  would  be  payable  or 
applicable  under  this  my  Will  in  case  the  sam^  were  sold  or  converted  into  money.  And  I declare 
that  my  real  estate  shall  for  the  purposes  of  this  my  Will  be  considered  as  converted  into  personalty  upon 
my  decease.  And  I declare  that  the  said  trustees  or  trustee  for  the  time  being,  do  and  shall,  with  and 
out  of  the  monies  which  shall  come  to  their,  his,  or  her  hands,  under  or  by  virtue  of  this  my  Will 
and  the  trusts  thereof,  pay  my  just  debts,  funeral  and  testamentary  expenses,  and  legacies.  And  I 
declare  that  the  said  trust  funds  or  so  much  thereof  as  shall  remain  after  answering  the  purposes 
aforesaid,  and  the  annual  income  thereof,  shall  be  in  trust  for  all  my  children  (but  subject  as  to  my 
daughter  Mary  to  the  proviso  hereinbefore  contained),  who  being  a son  or  sons  shall  have  attained  or 


436  APPENDIX. 


shall  attain  the  age  of  twenty- one  years,  and  being  a daughter  or  daughters  shall  have  attained  or  shall 
attain  that  age  or  be  previously  married,  in  equal  shares  if  more  than  one.  PROVIDED  ALWAYS,  that,  as 
regards  my  copyrights  and  the  produce  and  profits  thereof,  my  said  daughter  Mary,  notwithstanding  the 
proviso  hereinbefore  contained  with  reference  to  her,  shall  share  with  my  other  children  therein  whether 
she  be  married  or  not.  And  I devise  the  estates  vested  in  me  at  my  decease  as  a trustee  or 
mortgagee  unto  the  use  of  the  said  Georgina  Hogarth  and  John  Forster,  their  heirs  and  assigns,  upon  the  i 
trusts  and  subject  to  the  equities  affecting  the  same  respectively.  And  I appoint  the  said  Georgina  I 
Hogarth  and  John  Forster  executrix  and  executor  of  this  my  Will,  and  Guardians  of  the  \ 

persons  of  my  children  during  their  respective  minorities.  And  lastly,  as  I have  now  set  j 

down  the  form  of  words  which  my  legal  advisers  assure  me  are  necessary  to  the  plain  objects 

of  this  my  Will,  I solemnly  enjoin  my  dear  children  always  to  remember  how  much  they  owe 
to  the  said  Georgina  Hogarth,  and  never  to  be  wanting  in  a grateful  and  affectionate  attachment  to 
her,  for  they  know  well  that  she  has  been,  through  all  the  stages  of  their  growth  and  progress,  their  ever 
useful  self-denying  and  devoted  friend.  And  I desire  here  simply  to  record  the  fact  that  my  wife, 
since  our  separation  by  consent,  has  been  in  the  receipt  from  me  of  an  annual  income  of  £600,  while  all 
the  great  charges  of  a numerous  and  expensive  family  have  devolved  wholly  upon  myself.  I emphatically 
direct  that  I be  buried  in  an  inexpensive,  unostentatious,  and  strictly  private  manner  ; that  no  public 
announcement  be  made  of  the  time  or  place  of  my  burial ; that  at  the  utmost  not  more  than  three 
plain  mourning  coaches  be  employed  ; and  that  those  who  attend  my  funeral  wear  no  scarf,  cloak,  black 
fjow,  long  hat-band,  or  other  such  revolting  absurdity.  I direct  that  my  name  be  inscribed  in  plain 
English  letters  on  my  tomb,  without  the  addition  of  ‘ Mr.’  or  ‘ Esquire.’  I conjure  my  friends  on  no 
account  to  make  me  the  subject  of  any  monument,  memorial,  or  testimonial  whatever.  I rest  my  claims 
to  the  remembrance  of  my  country  upon  my  published  works,  and  to  the  remembrance  of  my  friends  I 
upon  their  experience  of  me  in  addition  thereto.  I commit  my  soul  to  the  mercy  of  God  through  our 
Lord  and  Saviour  Jesus  Christ,  and  I exhort  my  dear  children  humbly  to  try  to  guide  themselves  by  the  ! 
teaching  of  the  New  Testament  in  its  broad  spirit,  and  to  put  no  faith  in  any  man’s  narrow  construction 
of  its  letter  here  or  there.  In  witness  whereof  I the  said  Charles  Dickens,  the  testator,  have  to  this 
my  last  Will  and  Testament  set  my  hand  this  12th  day  of  May  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  1869.  [ 

“Charles  Dickens.  1 

j 

“ Signed  published  and  declared  by  the  above-named  Charles  Dickens  \ 1 

the  testator  as  and  for  his  last  Will  and  Testament  in  the  presence  of  us  f 
I (present  together  at  the  same  time)  who  in  his  presence  at  his  request  and  in  i 
the  presence  of  each  other  have  hereunto  subscribed  our  names  as  witnesses.  / 

“ G.  Holsworth,  26,  Wellington  Street,  Strand. 

“ Henry  Walker,  26,  Wellington  Street,  Strand. 

“ I,  Charles  Dickens  of  Gadshill  Place  near  Rochester  in  the  county  of  Kent  Esquire  declare  this  I 
to  be  a Codicil  to  my  last  Will  and  Testament  which  Will  bears  date  the  12th  day  of  May  1869.  I give 
to  my  son  Charles  Dickens  the  younger  all  my  share  and  interest  in  the  weekly  journal  called  ‘ All  the  ■ 
Year  Round,’  which  is  now  conducted  under  Articles  of  Partnership  made  between  me  and  William 
Henry  Wills  and  the  said  Charles  Dickens  the  younger,  and  all  my  share  and  interest  in  the  stereo-  j 
types  stock  and  other  effects  belonging  to  the  said  partnership  he  defraying  my  share  of  all  debts  j 
and  liabilities  of  the  said  partnership  which  may  be  outstanding  at  the  time  of  my  decease,  and  in  all  1 
i other  respects  I confirm  my  said  Will.  IN  WITNESS  whereof  I have  hereunto  set  my  hand  the  2nd  day  of  I 
June  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  1870. 

“ Charles  Dickens. 

“ Signed  and  declared  by  the  said  Charles  Dickens,  the  testator  as  and 
for  a Codicil  to  his  Will  in  the  presence  of  us  present  at  the  same  time 
who  at  his  request  in  his  presence  and  in  the  presence  of  each  other 
hereunto  subscribe  our  names  as  witnesses. 

“G.  Holsworth,  26,  Wellington  Street,  Strand. 

“ H.  Walker,  26,  Wellington  Street,  Strand.” 


The  real  and  personal  estate, — taking  the  property  bequeathed  by  the  last  codicil  at  a valuation  of  | 
something  less  than  two  years’  purchase  ; and  of  course  before  payment  of  the  legacies,  the  (inconsiderable)  | 
debts,  and  the  testamentary  and  other  expenses, — amounted,  as  nearly  as  may  be  calculated,  t0;^93,ooo.  ' 


INDEX 


A’Beckett  (Gilbert),  at  Miss 
Kelly’s  theatre,  184;  death  of, 

303 

Aberdeen,  reading  at,  338 
Absolon  (John),  260 
Actors  and  acting,  48-9,  73,  123-5, 
147,  156-7,  172-3  : at  Miss  Kelly’s 
theatre,  183-5;  French,  304-8 
Adams  (John  Quincey),  103 
Adams  (Mr.),  92 

Adelphi  theatre,  Carol  dramatized 
at  the,  147 

Africa,  memorials  of  dead  children 
in,  380 

Agreements,  literary,  145,  339-40 
Ainsworth  (Harrison),  31,  40,  50, 
263  ; editor  of  Bentley's  Miscel- 
lany, 45 

Alamode  beef-house  (Johnson’s),  1 1 
Albany  (U.S.),  reading  at,  401  (and 
see  402) 

Albaro,  Villa  Bagnerello  at,  152-60; 
the  sirocco,  152  ; Angus  Fletcher’s 
sketch  of  the  villa,  154;  English 
servants,  155  ; tradespeople,  ib. ; 
dinner  at  French  consul’s,  158; 
reception  at  the  Marquis  di 
Negri’s,  159 

Albert  (Prince),  at  Boulogne,  300 
Alexander  (hlr.),  86 
Alison  (Dr.),  73 
Alison  (Sheriff),  231 
All  the  Year  Ro^ind,  titles  suggested 
for,  341  ; first  number,  ih.  ; suc- 
cess of,  ib. ; distinction  between 
Household  IVurds  and,  342  y tales 
by  eminent  writers,  ib.  347  ; sale 
of  Christmas  numbers,  342 ; Dick- 
ens’s detached  papers,  342-4  ; Bul- 
wer  Lytton’s  Strange  Story  writ- 
ten for,  347 ; Charles  Collins’s 
papers,  346 ; projected  story  for, 
354  ; long  serial  stories  accepted, 
418  ; Dickens’s  last  paper  in,  429. 
See  codicil  to  will,  436 
Allan  (Sir  William),  71-3,  267 
Allonby  (Cumberland),  320-1  ; land- 
lady of  inn,  321 
Allston  (Washington),  97 
Amateur  theatricals,  i2a-5,  260, 
288-9 

Ambigu  (Paris),  Paradise  Lost  at 
the,  306 

America,  visit  to,  contemplated  by 
Dickens,  53-4  ; wide-spread  know- 
ledge of  Dickens’s  writings  in,  60, 
383-85  ; eve  of  visit,  81-3  ; visit  de- 
cided, 82  ; proposed  book  about. 
Life  of  Charles  Dickens,  29. 


ib. ; arrangements  for  journey,  ib.  ; 
rough  passage,  83-5  ; first  impres- 
sions, 85-90;  hotels,  87,  102, 
385-88,  390-1;  inns,  102,  117, 
119-20;  Dickens’s  popularity  in, 
89,  386  ; second  impressions,  90-8  ; 
levees,  91-2,  103, 108,  no,  114-15, 
1 1 8 ; outcry  against  Dickens,  93  ; 
slavery,  96,  104-5,  149; 

international  copjaight  agitation, 
90-1,  93-5,  97-8,  106,  I2I-2;  rail- 
way travelling,  98-9,109,  388,  392, 
400-1  ; trying  climate,  103  (see 
391);  “located”  Englishmen,  104; 
Dickens’s  dislike  of,  ib.\  canal-boat 
journeys,  106-13;  Dickens’s  real 
compliment  to,  106 ; deference 
paid  to  ladies  in,  in;  dueUing, 
118;  Dickens’s  opinion  of  country 
and  peojile  in  1842,  104,  119-20, 
129-30;  in  1868,  130,  293-4; 
effect  of  Martin  Chuzzlewit  in, 
142  ; desire  to  hear  Dickens  read, 
356 ; Mr.  Dolby  sent  to,  357  ; re- 
sult of  Dolby’s  visit,  ib. ; revisited 
by  Dickens,  385-403  ; old  and  new 
friends,  386;  profits  of  readings, 
387;  Fenianism  in,  388;  news- 
papers, 389 ; planning  the  read- 
ings, ib.  390 ; nothing  lasts  long 
in,  389,  399 ; work  of  Dickens’s 
stair  in,  391 ; the  result  of  34 
readings,  394 ; Dickens’s  ways  of 
life,  ib.  400-1  ; value  of  a vote, 
395  ; objection  to  coloured  people, 
lb. ; female  beauty,  399-400 ; total 
expenses  of  reading  tour,  and  pro- 
fits from  readings,  402,  404  ; Dick- 
ens’s departure  from,  403  ; effect  of 
Dickens’s  death,  383 
Americanisms,  96,  109-10,  115,  122, 
392,  400 

American  Notes,  choicest  passages 
of,  107  ; less  satisfactory  than 
Dickens’s  letters,  106 ; in  prepa- 
ration, 125-6;  proposed  dedica- 
tion, 127  ; rejected  motto  for, 
128;  suppressed  introductory 
chapter,  129-30;  Jeffrey’s  opinion 
of,  130  ; large  sale,  ib. 

Americans,  friendly,  173;  French 
contrasted  with,  218-19 
Andersen  (Hans),  319,  341 
Anniversary,  a birthday,  29,  42,  no- 
il, 353  ; a fatal,  352,  373 
Archdale  (Mr.  and  Mrs.),  266 
Arnold  (Dr.),  Dickens’s  reverence 
for,  164 


AiTas  (France),  a religious  Richard- 
son’s show  at,  35-0 

Art,  conventionalities  of,  170;  limita- 
tions of,  in  England,  296 ; inferiority 
of  English  to  French,  310-11 
Artists’  Benevolent  Fund  dinner, 
appeal  by  Dickens  at,  338 
Ashburton  (Lord),  96,  115 
Ashley  (Lord),  and  ragged  schools, 
81,  273.  See  Shaftesbury, 

Lord 

Astley’s,  a visit  from,  318 

As  You  Like  It,  a French  version 

of,  307 

Auber  and  Queen  Victoria,  308 
Austin  (Henry),  50,  342 ; secretary 
to  the  Sanitary  Commission,  229 ; 
death  of,  347 

Australia,  idea  of  settling  in,  enter- 
tained by  Dickens,  324  ; proposed 
readings  in,  349 ; the  idea  aban- 
doned, 350 

Austrian  police,  296-7 
Authors,  American,  97 
Authorship,  disquietudes  of,  207-8 

Babbage  (Charles),  265 
Bagot  (Sir  Charles),  123-4 
Baltimore  (U.S.),  women  of,  394  ; 
readings  at,  ib.  398  (and  see  402) ; 
white  and  coloured  prisoners  in 
Penitentiary,  395 
Bancroft  (George),  87,  265 
Banquets,  Emile  de  Ghardin’s  su- 
perb, 309 

Bantams,  reduced,  343 
Barbox  Brothers,  375 
Barham  (Rev.  Mr.),  172,  267 
Barnaby  Rudge,  agreement  to  write, 
36-7  (and  see  41,  45);  Dickens  at 
work  on,  51,  66-9;  agreement 
for,  transferred  to  Chapman  and 
Hall,  62  (see  45) ; the  raven  in, 
66-7,  70;  constraints  of  weekly 
publication,  68 ; close  of,  69 ; 
characterised,  ib.  70 ; Lord  Lyt- 
ton’s opinion  of,  69 
Barrow,  Elizabeth  (Dickens’s  mo- 
ther), I 

Barrow  (Mary),  4 
Barrow  (Charles),  4 
Barrow  (Thomas),  i ; accident  to,  7 
Barthelemy  (M.),  leaves  his  card,  219 
Bartlett  (Dr.),  on  Slavery  in  Ame- 
rica, 1 16 

Bartley  (Mr.),  of  Covent-garden,  25 
(see  51) 

Bath,  a fancy  about,  405 


437 


438 


INDEX. 


Bathing,  sea,  Dickens’s  love  of,  127, 
135-6,  160 

Battle  of  Life,  title  suggested  for, 
196  (and  see  210);  contemplated 
abandonment  of,  207-8 ; writing 
resumed,  209  ; points  in  the  story, 
210;  Jeffrey’s  opinion  of,  213; 
sketch  of,  210,  213;  Dickens’s 
own  comments  on,  213;  date  of 
the  story,  214;  reply  to  criticism, 
214 ; doubts  as  to  third  part,  215  ; 
dedication,  ib.  ; illustrated  by 
Stanfield  and  Leech,  ib. ; grave 
mistake  made  by  Leech,  ib.  ; 
dramatized,  219 

Bayham-street,  Camden  town,  Dick- 
ens’s early  life  in,  6-8 
Beale  (Mr.),  proposal  from,  respect- 
ing paid  readings,  327 
Beard  (Mr.  Carr),  on  Dickens’s  lame- 
ness, 406 ; readings  stopped  by, 
ib.  407 ; in  constant  attendance 
on  Dickens  at  his  last  readings, 

407,  430 

Beard  (Thos.),  23,  26-7,  50,  265,  346 
Beard  (Frank),  267 
Beaucourt  (M . ) described  by  Dickens, 
298-9  ; his  “property,”  ib. ; among 
the  Putney  market-gardeners,  299 ; 
his  goodness,  304 
Bedrooms,  American,  87,  91 
Beecher  (Ward),  394 ; readings  in 
his  church  at  Brooklyn,  392,  394-5 
Beggars,  Italian,  174-5 
Begging-letter  writers,  64,  150;  in 
Paris,  220 

Belfast,  reading  at,  336-7 
BeU  (Robert),  265 
Benedict  (Jules),  illness  of,  264-5 
Bentley  (Mr.),  Dickens’s  early  rela- 
tions with,  32,  36-7,  39,  41-2,  45, 
339-40 ; friendly  feeling  of  Dickens 
in  after  life,  269,  340-1 
Beittley's  Miscellany,  Dickens  editor 
of,  32  ; proposal  to  write  Barnaby 
Rudge  in,  41  ; editorship  trans- 
ferred to  Mr.  Ainsworth,  45 
Berwick,  Mary  (Adelaide  Procter), 
418-19 

Berwick-on-Tweed,  readings  at,  346, 

348 

Bethnal  Green  Fowls,  344 
Betting-men  at  Doncaster,  321 
Beverley  (William)  at  Wellington- 
house  academy,  20 
Birmingham,  Dickens’s  promise  to 
read  at,  287  ; promise  fulfilled  (first 
public  readings),  ib.  288 ; other 
readings,  346,  354 ; silver  salver 
presented  to  Dickens,  287  (see 
435) ; Dickens’s  speeches  at  Insti- 
tute, 147,  420  (see  426,  428-9) 
Birthday  associations,  29,  42,  lio-ll, 
353 

Black  (Adam),  73 
Black  (Charles),  267 
Black  (John),  26,  149 ; his  early  ap- 
preciation of  Dickens,  28  (see  135) ; 
dinner  to,  135 

Blacking  warehouse  (at  Ilungerford 
Stairs),  Dickens  employed  at,  10- 


II;  described,  ib.\  associates  of 
Dickens,  1 1 ; removed  to  Chandos- 
street.  Covent-garden,  1 5 ; Dickens 
leaves,  16;  what  became  of  the 
business,  ib. 

Blackmore  (Edward),  employs  Dick- 
ens as  clerk,  22  ; his  recollections 
of  Dickens,  ib. 

Blackpool,  Dickens  at,  406 
Blackwood's  Magazine  and  Little 
Dorrit,  318 
Blair  (General),  396 
Blanchard  (Laman),  168,  172 
Bleak  House  begun,  274 ; originals 
of  Boythom  and  Skimpole,  276; 
inferior  to  Copperfield,  277  ; hand- 
ling of  character  in,  281-4  ; defects 
of,  281-2  ; Dean  Ramsay  on,  283; 
originals  of  Chancery  abuses,  283- 
4;  completion,  281  ; sale  of,  287 
Blessington  (Lady),  lines  written  for, 
134  note  (and  see  146) 

Blind  Institution  at  Lausanne,  in- 
mates of,  191-3,  290-1 
Boat-race  (International),  Dickens’s 
speech  at  dinner,  428 
Bonchurch,  Dickens  at,  249  - 53  ; 

effect  of  climate,  251-2 
Book  friends,  231 

Books,  written  and  unwritten,  hints 
for,  375-82 ; suggested  titles  in 
Memoranda  for  new,  381 
Bookseller  in  distress,  94 
Booksellers,  invitation  to,  148  note 
Boots,  absurdity  of,  92 
Boots,  a gentlemanly,  at  Calais,  37  ; 

a patriotic  Irish,  335-6 
Boots  at  the  Holly-tree  Inn,  314 ; suc- 
cess of  reading  at  Boston  (U.S.), 

392 

Bores,  American,  iii,  114 
Boston  (U.S.),  first  visit  to,  86-90; 
enthusiastic  reception,  86 ; dinner 
at,  91  ; changes  since  1842,  386; 
first  reading,  386,  398-9 ; a re- 
membrance of  Christmas,  389  ; 
walking -match,  398;  audiences, 
399 ; last  readings,  402 
Bottle  (Cruikshank’s),  Dickens’s  opi- 
nion of,  229 

Boulogne,  an  imaginary  dialogue  at, 
220-1;  Dickens  at,  287,  297-304; 
the  pier,  302  ; Dickens’s  liking 
for,  287  ; M.  Beaucourt’s  “ Pro- 
perty,” 297-9,  302-3  ; sketch  of  M. 
Beaucourt,  285-9  > Shakespearian 
performance,  299;  pig -market, 
ib.  ; camp,  300-3  ; Wilkie  Col- 
lins and  Jerrold  at,  302  ; Prince 
Albert  at,  300 ; illuminations,  30 1 ; 
epidemic,  303 
Bouquets,  serviceable,  308 
Bourse,  victims  of  the,  310 
Boxall  (William),  267,  269,  305 
Boxing-match,  a,  188 
Boyle  (Mary),  345 
Boys,  list  of  Christian  names  of,  381 
Boz,  origin  of  the  word,  27  ; fac- 
simile of  autograph  signature,  78 
Bradbury  &i  Evans  (Messrs.),  58, 
138-9.  150.  178,  I9(>.  208,  255, 


265;  proposal  to,  138-9;  a sug- 
gestion by,  140 ; Dickens’s  agree- 
ments with,  145  (and  see  208,  286) 
Bradford,  reading  at,  288 
Brainwork,  effect  of,  140 
Bray  (Richard),  18,  20 
Brighton,  Dickens’s  first  visit  to,  38  ; 
other  visits,  249,  287  ; theatre,  38 ; 
readings  at,  346-7 

Bride  of  Lammermoor  ( Scott’s),  com- 
position of  the,  362 
Bridgeman  (Laura),  192 
Brinton  (Dr.),  consulted  by  Dickens, 
3S2 

British  Museum  reading-room,  fre- 
quented by  Dickens,  23 
Broadstairs,  Dickens  at,  37-8,  57,  62, 
78-81,  125-8,  135-6,  185  note,  225- 
31.  243-9,  253-4,  273-4:  Nickleby 
completed  at,  49 ; house  occupied 
by  Dickens,  57  ; 'wc\\\n^  American 
Notes,  1 25-6 : pony-chaise  accident, 
248 

Brobity’s  (Mr.)  snuff-box,  382 
Brooke  (Rajah),  contemplated  me- 
morial to,  416 

Brooklyn  (New  York),  scene  at,  392  ; 
reading  in  Mr.  Ward  Beecher’s 
chapel,  ib.  394-5 

Brougham  (Lord),  in  Paris,  217  ; 

the  Pujich  people”  and,  265 
Browne  (H.  K.),  51,  55,  266; 

chosen  to  illustrate  Pickwick,  30 ; 
accompanies  Dickens  and  his  wife 
to  Elanders,  37  ; in  Yorkshire 
with  Dickens,  48 ; failure  of,  in  a 
Dombey  illustration,  239  (but  see 
238)  ; sketch  for  Micawber,  252  ; 
his  sketch  of  Skimpole,  285 
Browning  (R.  B.),  Dickens’s  opinion 
of  his  Blot  on  the  ’ Scutcheo?i,  132- 
3 ; verse  written  for  Maclise’s 
Serenade,  153  note 
Bruce  (V.-C.  Knight),  147-8 
Brunei  (Isambard),  265 
Buckingham  Palace,  Dickens  at, 
421-2 

Buffalo  (U.S.),  reading  at,  399 
Buller  (Charles),  135 
Burdett  (Sir  Francis),  advocacy  of 
the  poor,  70 
Burnett  (Mr.),  50,  218 
Burns  festival.  Prof.  Wilson’s  speech 
at  the,  160 

Bury  St.  Edmunds,  reading  at,  346 
Buss  (Mr.),  Pickwick  illustrations 

i>y.  30 

Byron’s  (Lord)  Ada,  265 

Ca  IRA,  the  revolutionary  tunc,  306 
Cambridge,  reading  at,  356 
C.ambridge  (U.S.)  and  Boston  con- 
trasted, 386  ; the  Webster  mur- 
der, 390 

Camden-town,  Dickens  with  Mrs. 

Roylance  at,  11- 12,  15 
Campbell  (Lord),  on  the  writings  of 
Dickens,  289 

Canada,  emigrants  in,  127 
Canalctti,  truthfulness  of,  169 
Canal-boat  journeys  in  America,  10(1- 


INDEX. 


439 


13;  a day’s  routine,  108;  dis- 
agreeables of,  108-9 ; ^ pretty 
scene  on  board,  116-17 
Cannibalism,  an  approach  to,  220 
Cannon-row,  Westminster,  incident 
at  public-house,  14 
Canterbury,  readings  at,  346,  348 
Car-driver,  an  Irish,  335-6 
Card-plajing  on  the  Atlantic,  84 
Carlisle  (Lord),  260,  265,  273; 
Carlisle,  reading  at,  346 
Carlyle  (Thomas),  160,  172,  265-7  ; 
a strange  profane  story,  35 ; on 
international  eopyright,  97-8 ; 
Dickens’s  admiration  of,  98,  167 
(and  see  426) ; regard  for  Dickens, 
15 1 ; letter  on  Mazzini,  160;  a 
correction  for,  254 ; on  Dickens’s 
acting,  289 ; grand  teaching  of, 
329 ; inaugural  address  of,  at 
Edinburgh  University,  353 ; hint 
to  common  men,  358  ; on  hu- 
mour, 363 ; a hero  to  Dickens, 
426  ; on  Diakens’s  death,  424-5 
Carlyle  (Mrs.),  168,  265  ; on  the 
expression  in  Dickens’s  face,  31  ; 
death  of,  353 ; Dickens’s  last 
meeting,  il>. 

Carrara,  ovation  at,  1 74 
Carriage,  an  unaccommodating, 
190-1  ; a wonderful,  202 
Carrick  Fell  (Cumberland),  ascent 
of,  320 ; accident  to  Wilkie  Col- 
lins, t'6. 

Cary,  the  American  bookseller,  103 
Castellan  (Marquis),  217 
Castle  Spectre,  a judicious  “ tag  ” to 
the,  266 

Catholicism,  Roman,  the  true  ob- 
jection to,  21 1 
Cattermole  (George),  50,  55 
Cerjat  (Mr.),  190-1,196,  201 
Chalk  (Kent),  Dickens’s  honeymoon 
spent  at,  28;  revisited,  31 
Challinor  (W.),  tract  by,  on  Chan- 
cery abuses,  283-4 

Chambers,  contemplated  chapters 

on,  54 

Chambers  (Miss),  346 
Chamounix,  Dickens’s  trip  to,  197-8; 
revisited,  290 ; narrow  eseape  of 

Egg,  ih. 

Chancery,  Dickens’s  experience  of  a 
suit  in,  147-8;  originals  of  the 
abuses  exposed  in  Bleak  House, 
283-4 

Chaiming  (Dr.),  87,  97  ; on  Dickens, 
86,  89 

Chapman  and  Hall,  82,  139-40 ; 
overtures  to  Dickens  by,  29 ; ad- 
vise purchase  of  the  Sketches  copy- 
right from  Mr.  Macrone,  33  ; 
early  lelations  of  Dickens  with, 
40 ; concede  share  of  copyright  in 
Pickwick,  ib. ; payments  by,  for 
Pickwick  and  Nicholas  Nickleby, 
ib.\  oi  Master  Humphrey' s 

Clock  submitted  to,  53-5 ; pur- 
chase Bamaby  Rudge,  62 , rupture 
with,  145  ; Dickens’s  earliest  and 
latest  publishers,  339 


Chapman  (Edward),  50 
Chapman  JMr.  Thomas),  not  the 
original  of  Mr.  Dombey,  1 50  (and 
see  243) 

Chapman  (Mr.),  of  the  City  Theatre, 

Chappell  (Messrs.),  agreements  with, 
352-3 ; arrangement  with,  for 
course  of  final  readings,  403 ; 
amount  received  from,  on  account 
of  readings,  404 

Chateaubriand  (M.),  221,  222  note 
Chatham,  Dickens’s  early  impres- 
sions of,  2,  5-6 ; Mr.  Giles’s 
school,  5-6 

Cheeryble  (Brothers),  in  Nickleby, 
originals  of,  50 
Cheese  (Mr.),  427 
Cheltenham,  reading  at,  346 
Chester,  readings  at,  346,  354 
Chesterton  (Mr.),  80,  125 
Chicago  (U.S.),  monomania  respect- 
ing. 394 

ChigweU,  inn  at,  67 
Children,  powers  of  observation  in, 
2-3  ; old,  380 

Child's  History  finished,  287 
Child’s  Hospital  reading,  328 
Child’s  night-lights,  wonders  of,  320 
Chillon,  Castle  of,  198 
Chimes,  a title  found  for  the,  162  ; 
design  for,  163  ; Dickens  hard  at 
work  on,  164;  first  outline,  165-6; 
effect  [on  Dickens’s  health,  166; 
objections  to,  167  ; finished,  168  ; 
private  readings  at  Lincoln’s-inn- 
fields,  ib.  172;  Jeffrey’s  opinion 
of  the  tale,  168,  173 
Chimneys,  smoky,  62 
Chinese  Junk,  243-5 
Chorley  (Henry),  346 
Christmas,  Dickens’s  identity  with, 

146 

Christmas-eve  and  day,  Dickens’s 
accustomed  walk  on,  425 
Christmas  Carol,  origin  of,  137  ; in 
preparation,  140;  sale  and  ac- 
counts of,  144-5 ! Jeffrey  and 
Thackeray  on,  145 ; message  of 
the,  ib. ; the  story  characterized, 
146 ; dramatized  at  the  Adelphi, 

147  ; first  public  reading  at  Bir- 
mingham, 287  ; reading  of,  for  the 
Hospital  for  Sick  Children,  328  ; 
reading  in  Boston  (U.S.),  398-9 

Christmas  Sketches,  Dickens’s,  371 
Cicala,  the,  173 

Cincinnati  (U.S.),  113;  described, 
ib.-,  a temperance  festival,  114; 
bores  at,  ib. 

Circumlocution  Office,  420-1 
Clare  (poet),  417 
Clarke  (Mrs.  Cowden),  232 
Clay  (Henry),  103-4;  on  international 
copyright,  95 

Clenham  (Mrs.),  in  Little  Dorrit, 
first  sketch  of,  375-6 
Cleveland  (U.S.),  rude  reception  of 
mayor  of,  120 
Clifton,  reading  at,  405 
Coachman,  a Paris,  222  note 


Cobden  (Mr.),  at  the  [Manchester 
Athenaeum,  136 

Cobham-park,  62,  82  ; Dickens’s  last 
walk,  335,  433 

Cockburn  (Sir  Alexander),  305 
Coffee-shops  frequented  by  Dickens, 
12 

Coggleswell  (Mr.),  104 
Cogswell  (Mr.),  268 
Coincidence,  marvels  of,  321,  427-8 
Colchester,  reading  at,  346 
Col  de  Balme  pass,  197 
Golden  (David),  92,  105,  267 
Collins  (Charles  Allston),  marriage 
of,  to  Kate  Dickens,  345  ; books 
by,  346  ; cover  designed  by,  for 
Edwin  Drood,  409  ; death  of,  346 
Collins  (Wffkie),  Dickens’s  great  re- 
gard for,  261  ; holiday  trip  with 
Dickens  and  Egg,  290-7  ; at 
Boulogne,  300 ; in  Paris,  288  ; his 
Lighthouse  produced  at  Tavistock 
House,  289 ; in  Cumberland, 
320-1  ; accident  to,  on  Carrick 
Fell,  320 ; tales  by,  in  All  the 
Year  Round,  342  ; at  his  brother’s 
wedding,  346 
Colquhoun  (Mr.),  73 
Columbus  (U.S.),  levee  at,  118 
Commercial  Travellers’  schools  ad- 
mired by  Dickens,  342 
Commons,  House  of,  Dickens’s  opi- 
nion of,  27,  420 
Conjuror,  a French,  301-2 
Consumption,  hops  a supposed  cure 

for,  331 

Conversion,  a wonderful,  1 73  note 
Cooke,  Mr.  (of  Astley’s),  318 
Cooling  Castle,  ruins  of,  330,  334, 

369 

Cooling  Churchyard,  Dickens's  par- 
tiality for,  334 

Copyright,  international,  Dickens’s 
views  on,  91,  93-5,  97,  106,  134; 
Henry  Clay  on,  95  ; petition  to 
American  Congress,  96,  104  ; Car- 
lyle on,  97-8  ; two  obstacles  to, 
121-2  (and  see  126);  result  of  agi- 
tation, 94 

Corduroy-road,  a,  119 
Cornelius  (Anne),  435 
Cornwall  (Barry),  177,  276,  430 
Cornwall,  Dickens’s  trip  to,  131-2 
Costello  (Dudley),  fancy  sketch  of, 
228 

Coutts,  Miss  (Baroness  Burdett- 
Coutts),  64,  70,  125,  173;  great 
regard  for,  136 ; true  friendship 
of,  219;  generosity  of,  151  note, 
193,  271,  287,  351  (and  see  173) 
Covent-garden  theatre,  Macready 
39.  51;  farce  written  by  Dick- 
ens for,  51  ; dinner  at  the  close 
of  Mr.  Macready’s  management, 
ib. ; the  editor  of  the  Satirist 
hissed  from  stage,  134 ; Dickens 
apphes  for  an  engagement  at,  25 
(see  51,  183) 

Coventry,  gold  repeater  presented 
to  Dickens  by  watchmakers  of, 
339  (and  see  435);  reading  at,  288 


440 


INDEX. 


Crawford  (Sir  George),  171 
Cricket  on  the  Hearth,  origin  of  the, 
181-2;  Dickens  busy  on,  185; 
first  public  reading  at  Birming- 
ham, 287  ; a reading  in  Ary 
Scheifer’s  studio,  3 1 1 
Crimean  war  unpopular  in  France, 

301,  305 

Cruikshank  (George),  51,  129;  his 
illustrations  to  Sketches,  29  ; claim 
to  the  origination  of  Oliver  Twist, 
42-3  and  note,  235-7  (and  see 
autograph  letter  of  Dickens,  237- 
8) ; fancy  sketch  of,  226-7  ; Dick- 
ens’s opinion  of  his  Bottle  and 
Drunkard’ s Children,  229,  245-6 
(and  see  247-8) 

Cruise  on  (Charles  Collins’s), 

346 

Cumberland,  Dickens’s  tripin,  320-1 
Cunningham,  Peter,  character  and 
life,  289 

Curry  (Mr.),  156,  167,  171 
Curtis  (George),  267 
Custom-house-officers  (continental), 
171,  216 

A4fO'j  projected,  182;  misgiv- 
ing as  to,  185-6  ; first  number  of, 
186;  Pictures  from  Italy  begun 
in,  187;  Dickens’s  short  editor- 
ship, ib. ; succeeded  by  author  of 
this  book,  ib.  212 
Dana  (R.  H.),  87 
Danby  (Mr.),  251 

Danson  (Dr.  Henry),  recollections 
by,  of  Dickens  at  school,  20-1 
Dansons  (the)  at  work,  319 
David  Copperjield,  identity  of  Dick- 
ens with  ,hero  of,  9-16,  278  ; 
characters  and  incidents  in,  274- 
80 ; the  original  of  Dora,  23-4 
(see  270) ; name  found  for,  264  ; 
dinner  in  celebration  of,  273  ; sale 
of,  255  ; titles  proposed  for,  263-4  ; 
progress  of,  270;  Lord  Lytton  on, 
274  ; popularity  of,  ib.  ; original 
of  Miss  Mowcher,  275  ; original 
of  Mr.  Micawber,  276-7  ; Bleak 
House  inferior  to,  277  ; a proposed 
opening,  314;  fac-simile  of  plan 
prepared  for  first  number,  315 
David  d’ Angers,  the  sculptor,  221 
Davies  (Rev.  R.  H.),  Dickens’s 
letter  to,  416 
Davison  (Henry),  51 
Dean-street  theatre  (Soho),  183-5, 
206 

De  Foe  (Daniel),  his  Ilistoiy  of  the 
Devil,  38 

Delane  (John),  265,  319 
Denman  (Lord),  151 
Devonshire  (Dulce  of),  generosity  of, 
200  ; help  rendered  to  the  Guild 
of  Literature  and  Art,  259 ; cha- 
racter, ib. 

Devonshire-terracc,  Dickens  removes 
from  Doughty-street  into,  51  ; let 
to  Sir  J.  Duke,  187 ; Maclise’s 
sketch  of  Dickens’s  house,  274 
Dick,  a favourite  canary,  303 


Dickens  (John),  family  of,  1-2;  his 
small  but  good  library,  4 ; money 
embarrassments  of,  6,  8 ; character 
described  by  his  son,  6-7;  arrested 
for  debt,  8;  legacy  to,  14;  leaves 
the  Marshalsea,  15  ; on  the  educa- 
tion of  his  son,  23  ; becomes  a re- 
porter, ib.  (see  24) ; Devonshire 
home  described,  52  ; death  of, 
271 ; his  grave  at  Highgate,  ib.', 
sayings  of,  277 ; respect  enter- 
tained by  his  son  for,  ib. 

Dickens  (Mrs.  John),  death  of,  351 

Dickens  (Fanny),  l,  11-12,  25,  258; 
elected  a pupil  to  the  Royal  Aca- 
demy of  Music,  7 ; obtains  a prize 
thereat,  15;  illness  of,  218;  El- 
liotson’s  opinion  of,  ib. ; death, 
262 

Dickens  (Letitia),  2,  262  ; marriage 
of,  229 

Dickens  (Frederick),  2,  34,  50,  73, 
82  (and  see  267) ; naiTow  escape 
from  drowning  in  the  bay  at 
Genoa,  160;  death  of,  405 

Dickens  (AFred  Lamert),  2,  62, 
229  ; deafli  of,  346 

Dickens  Augustus  (died  in  America), 
2,  27,  229 

Dickens,  Charles,  birth  of,  at 
Portsea,  i 

reminiscences  of  childhood  at 
Chatham,  2-7 

relation  of  David  Copperfield  to, 
3-4,  10-16,  278 

his  wish  that  his  biography  should 
be  witten  by  the  author  of  this 
book,  7 (see  240,  261,  266) 
first  efforts  at  description,  8 
account  by  himself  of  his  boyhood, 
9-16,  25  (and  see  342,  423) 
school-days  and  start  in  life,  17-24 
illnesses. of,  13,  69,  82  (see  354-5, 
431-3).  159.  185-6,354-5,  366-7, 
390-1,  398,  401,  431 
clerk  in  an  attorney’s  office,  22 
hopeless  love  of,  23-4 
newspaper  reporting  and  writing. 


24-8 

tries  to  get  upon  the  stage,  24-5 
(see  51,  182-3) 

first  book,  and  origin  of  Pickwick, 
28-30 

marriage,  28  ; separation  from  his 
wife,  328 

writes  for  the  stage,  30  (and'  see 

38-9.  51) 

first  five  years  of  fame,  31-81 
predominant  impression  of  his 
life,  32,  40,  83,  121,  163-4,  174 
note,  261,  324,  428 
personal  description  of,  31 
personal  habits,  35-6,  in,  119, 


193.  219.  3327S..  423-4 

relations  with  his  illustrators,  42-3 
and  note,  234-8 
portraits  of,  20,  49,  339 
curious  epithets  given  to  his  chil- 
dren, 216,  298  (and  see  89,  96-7, 
106,  125) 

entered  at  the  Middle  Temple,  51 


Dickens,  Charles 
adventures  in  the  Highlands,  74-8 
visit  to  the  United  States,  81-125; 

re'visits  America,  385 
domestic  griefs,  83 
an  old  malady,  82-3,  354-5,  431-2 
an  admirable  stage  manager,  184, 
224-5,  260-1 

his  ravens,  62,  66-7,  185 
New  York,  invitations  to,  90 
his  dogs,  126-7,  159  note,  333-4 
(see  426) 
his  birds,  303 

accompaniments  of  work,  155, 

193.  33; 

religious  views  of,  136-7,  163-4,  ^93 
turning-point  of  his  t;areer,  140- 1 
writing  in  the  Chronicle,  149-50 
Carlyle’s  regard  for,  15 1 
fancy  sketch  of  his  biographer,  229 
seaside  holidays,  243-54,  297-304 
Italian  travels,  168-81,  290-7 
craving  for  crowded  streets,  162, 
204-9 

political  opinions,  163,  419-21 

(and  see  429) 

his  long  walks,  167,  343,  425 
first  desire  to  become  a public 
reader,  172,  206-7,  287 
edits  the  Daily  News,  186-7 
home  in  Switzerland,  189-90;  re- 
visits the  continent,  290-7 
residence  in  Paris,  217-23,  304-14 
underwriting  numbers,  222  (see 

241).  374 

overwriting  numbers,  234,  240 
home  disappointments,  321-8  (and 
see  436) 

purchases  Gadshill-place,  330 
first  public  readings,  287-8 
first  paid  readings,  335-9 
second  series  of  readings,  344-50 
third  series  of  readings,  350-57 
memoranda  for  stories  first  jotted 
down  by,  322  (and  see  375-82) 
favourite  walks,  334-5,  433 
first  attack  of  lameness,  352  (and 
see  357,  373-4,  401,  405-7,  425-6, 
430,  432-3) ; Mr.  Syme’s  opi- 
nion, 406 

general  review  of  his  literary  la- 
bours, 358-85 

Frencli  translation  of  his  works, 

304-5 

effect  in  America  of  his  death,  383 
last  readings  of,  403-8 
noticcaBlc  changes  in,  404,  406, 
43* 

comparison  of  early  and  late  MSS., 
409- 1 1 

personal  characteristics,  414-28 
interview  with  the  Oucen,  422 
strain  and  excitement  at  the  final 
readings  at  St.  James’s  HaU, 
430-1 

last  days  at  Gadshill,  428-33 
his  death  (sec  433),  424-5 
a tribute  of  gratitude  to,  for  his 
books,  433 

general  mourning  for,  434 
burial  in  Westminster  Abbey,  434 


INDEX. 


441 


Dickens,  Chari.es 
unbidden  mourners  at  grave,  434  ; 
tablet  in  Rochester  Cathedral, 
314  note 

his  Wm,  417,  435-6  (see  137) 
Dickens  (Mrs.),  28,  42,  74,  77,  81-2, 
84,  86-7,  91-3,  95,  98,  102-3, 
iio-ii,  115,  118,  120,  123-4, 
151,  164,  1O8,  171-2,  187,  197-8, 
208-9,  218,  260,  263,  270,  273, 
312,  324-5  ; pony-chaise  accident 
at  Broadstairs,  248  ; silver  flower- 
basket  presented  to,  at  Birming- 
ham, 287  ; reluctance  to  leave  Eng- 
land, 82  ; her  maid  Anne,  ib.  84, 
87,  102,  III,  120,  216;  an  admi- 
rable traveller,  1 1 8;  Maclise’s  por- 
trait of,  132 ; the  separation,  328 
(and  see  436) 

Dickens  (Charles,  jun.),  173,  229,288, 
328,  435-6;  birth  of,  31;  illness, 
222-3;  education,  219,  270;  sent  to 
Leipzig,  287  ; marriage,  347 
Dickens  (Mary),  birth  of^  41  (and  see 
266,  334,  338,  435) 

Dickens  (Kate),  305,  332,  338  ; birth 
of,  51  (and  see  266);  illness  of, 
155  ; marriage,  345 
Dickens  (Walter  Landor),  229;  chris- 
tening of,  83  ; death  of,  70  (and 
see  351) 

Dickens  (Francis  J effrey ) , birth  of,  1 3 7 
Dickens  (Alfred  Tennyson),  birth  of, 
185 

Dickens  (^Sydney  Smith  Haldimand), 
birth  of,  223  (see  427) 

Dickens  (Henry  Fielding),  birth  of, 
263  ; acting  of,  288  ; wins  scholar- 
ship at  Cambridge,  430  (and  see  43  5 ) 
Dickens  (Edward  Bulwer  Lytton), 
birth  of,  287  ; goes  to  Australia, 
405  (see  letter  to,  415-16,  426) 
Dickens  (Dora  Annie),  birth  of,  270 ; 
death,  272 ; her  grave  at  High- 
gate,  273, 285 

Dickens  in  Catnp  (Bret  Harte’s),  60 
Dilke  (Charles  Wentworth),  9 
Dilke  (Sir  Charles),  253 
Disraeli  (Mr.),  432 ; at  the  Man- 
chester Athemeum,  136 
Doctors,  Dickens’s  distrust  of,  252 
Doctors’  Commons,  Dickens  report- 
ing in,  23  (and  see  182-3,  280) 
Doctor  Marigold' s Prescriptions, y] \- 
5 (see  343) ; Dickens’s  faith  in,  as 
a reading,  353  ; success  of  the 
reading  at  New  York,  392 
Dogs,  Dickens’s,  126-7  (see  159 
note),  333-5  ; effect  of  his  sudden 
lameness  upon,  426 
Dolby  (Miss),  267 

Dolby,  Mr.  (Dickens's  manager), 
.3S5'6  ; sent  to  America,  357  ; 
troubles  of,  391-2,  395,  398;  the 
most  unpopular  man  in  America, 
3871  3S9 ; his  care  and  kindness, 
398,  402  ; commission  received  by, 
404 

Dombey  and  Son,  original  of  Mrs. 
Pipchin  in,  ii,  15,  239;  began  at 
Rosemont,  193;  Dickens  at  work 


on,  195-6,  200,  204-8;  general 
idea  for,  196  ; hints  to  artist,  ib. ; 
a reading  of  first  number,  202,  206 ; 
large  sale,  210  (and  see  255);  a 
number  underwritten,  222  (see 
241);  charwoman’s  opinion  of,  223 ; 
snuff-shop  readings  of,  ib. ; plan 
of,  232-3 ; progress  of,  234-43 ; 
artist -fancies  for  Mr.  Dombey, 
235-6  ; passage  of  original  MS. 
omitted,  234  note ; a reading  of 
second  number,  239  (see  198,  206); 
finished,  216;  Jeffrey  on,  240, 
242 ; characters  in,  and  supposed 
originals,  242-3  (and  see  150); 
profits  of,  229 ; translated  into 
Russian,  255-6 

Doncaster  race-week,  321 ; a “groan- 
ing phantom,”  ib.  (see  427) 

Dora,  areal,  23-4  ; changed  to  Flora 
in  Little  Dorrit,  24 
Dormitories,  white  and  coloured,  395 
D’Orsay  (Count),  178  ; death  of,  286 
Doughty-street,  Dickens  removes  to, 
31 ; incident  of,  344 
Douro  (Lady),  265 

Dover,  Dickens  at,  286  ; readings  at, 
346,  348  ; storm  at,  348 
Dowling  (Vincent),  26 
Dowton  (Mr.),  230 
Dramatic  College  (Royal),  Dickens’s 
interest  in  the,  338 
Dream,  a vision  in  a,  163-4  (2nd  see 

427- 8) ; President  Lincoln’s,  396 
Drunkard' s Childre7i  (Cruikshanks), 

Dickens’s  opinion  of,  245-6 
Dublin,  Dickens’s  first  impressions 
335  I humorous  colloquies  at 
Morrison’s  hotel,  336 ; readings  in, 
ih-  355-6 

Duelling  in  America,  118 
Duke  (Sir  James),  187 
Dumas’  (Alexandre)  tragedy  of  Kean, 
1 56  ; his  Orestes,  306 ; his  Chris- 
tine, 172  ; a supper  with,  221 
Dundee,  reading  at,  338 
Duplessis  (Marie),  death  of,  222  (see 

230) 

Dyce  (Alexander),  172,  266 

Eden  in  Martin  Chuzzlewit,  original 
of,  107,  109  ; a worse  swamp  than, 
142 

Edinburgh,  public  dinner  to  Dickens, 
71-3;  presentation  of  freedom,  72 
(and  see  327);  wassail-bowl  pre- 
sented after  Carol  reading,  327 
(see  435) ; readings  at,  327-8,  348, 
405  ; the  Scott  monument,  231 
Editorial  troubles  and  pleasures, 
417-18 

Editors,  American,  incursion  of,  86 
Education,  two kindsof,  23 ; Dickens’s 
speeches  on,  146-7,  420  (see  426, 

428- 9) 

Ed-join  Drood,  clause  inserted  in 
agreement  for,  408  note;  sale  of, 
ib. ; amount  paid  for,  ib. ; first 
fancy  for,  408  ; the  story  as  planned 
in  Dickens’s  mind,  ib. ; Longfel- 
low on,  409 ; merits  of,  ib. ; fac- 


simile of  portion  of  final  page, 
410  (and  see  433) ; an  unpublished 
scene  for,  412-14;  oiiginal  of  the 
opium  eater  in,  429 ; readings  of 
numbers,  430-32 

Egg  (Augustus),  289  ; fancy  sketch 
of,  229  ; holiday  trip  with  Dickens 
and  Wilkie  Collins,  290-7 ; his 
painting  of  Peter  the  Great  first 
seeing  Catherine,  31 1 ; narrow 
escape  at  Chamounix,  290 
Electric  message,  uses  for,  377 
EUot  (George),  Dickens’s  opinion  of 
her  first  book,  133 
Eliotson  (Dr.),  80,  151,  210,  216 
Elton  (Mr.),  Dickens’s  exertions  for 
family  of,  135 

Elwin  (Rev.  \Vhitwell),  allusion  to, 
262 

Emerson  (Ralph  Waldo),  268 
Emigrants  in  Canada,  127  and  note 
Emigration  schemes,  Dickens’s  be- 
lief in,  199 

Emmanuel  (Victor),  in  Paris,  305 
Englishmen  abroad,  188,  196,  200-1 
Engravings,  Dickens  on,  1 70  note 
Erie  (Lake),  120 
Eugenie  (Empress),  301 
Evening  Chronicle,  sketches  contri- 
buted by  Dickens  to,  28 
Evenings  of  a Working  Man  (John 
Overs’),  151  and  note 
Every  Man  in  his  Humour,  private 
performances  of,  at  Miss  Kelly’s 
theatre,  183-5 ! performances  at 
Knebworth-park,  258 
Examiner,  articles  by  Dickens  in  the, 

51 

Executions,  public,  Dickens’s  letter 
against,  268 
Exeter,  reading  at,  335 
Eye-openers,  392 

Facsimiles  : of  letters  written  in 
boyhood  by  Dickens,  19;  of  the 
autograph  signature  “ Boz,”  78  ; 
of  letter  to  George  Cruikshank, 
237-8  ; of  plans  prepared  for  first 
numbers  of  Copperfield  and  Little 
Dorrit,  315-16  ; of  portion  of  last 
page  of  Edwin  Di'ood,  410  (and 
see  433) ; of  Oliver  Twist,  41 1 
Fagin  (Bob),  ii,  13,  15,  159;  ad- 
venture with,  13 

Fairbaim  (Thomas),  letter  of  Dick- 
ens to,  on  posthumous  honours, 
416 

Eatal  Zero  (Percy  Fitzgerald’s),  418 
Faucit  (Helen),  267 
Fechter  (Mr.),  chalet  presented  by, 
to  Dickens,  331-2;  Dickens’s 
friendly  relations  with,  351 
Feline  foes,  303 

Felton  (Cornelius  C.),  87,  92,  94; 
letters  to,  131,  137  ; visits  Dick- 
ens, 287 

Fenianism  in  America,  388  (and  see 
422) 

Fermoy  (Lord),  427 

Fetes  at  Lausanne,  195,  198-9 

Fiction,  realities  of,  364-5,  369 


442  INDEX. 

jFielding  (Henry),  real  people  in 
novels  of,  275 ; episodes  introduced 
in  his  novels,  317  ; Dr.  Johnson 
on,  364 ; M.  Taine’s  opinion  of,  365 
Fields  (James  T.),  on  Dickens’s 
health  in  America,  390-1  ; at 
Gadshill,  333,  344,  429 
Fiesole,  Landor’s  villa  at,  177  note 
Fildes  (S.  L.),  chosen  to  illustrate 
Edwin  Drood,  409 
Finality,  a type  of,  244 
Finchley,  cottage  at,  rented  by  Dick- 
ens, 134 

Fine  Old  English  Gentleman,  a poli- 
tical squib  by  Dickens,  79 
Fireflies  in  Italy,  180 
Fires  in  America,  frequency  of,  387 
Fitzgerald  (Percy),  346 ; dog  given 
by,  to  Dickens,  333  ; a contributor 
in  All  the  Year  Round,  418  ; per- 
sonal liking  of  Dickens  for,  ih. 

“ Fix,”  a useful  word  in  America, 
109-10 

Flanders,  Dickens’s  trip  to,  37 
Fletcher  (Angus),  72,  74,  162,  174; 
with  Dickens  at  Broadstairs,  64 ; 
anecdotes  of,  74,  76,  179  (and  see 
152,  162,  174);  his  mother,  179 
note ; pencil  skptch  by,  of  the 
ViUa  Bagnerello  at  Albaro,  154; 

1 death  of,  1 79  note 

Flies,  plague  at  Lausanne,  194  note 
Fonblanque  (Albany),  30,  135,  172; 
wit  of,  264 

Footman,  a meek,  179 
Ford  (Mr.),  on  the  works  of  Cruilc- 
j shank,  247-8 

I Ford  (Mrs.),  265 
1 Fortescue  (Miss),  acting  of,  147 

1 Fortnightly  Review,  Mr.  Lewes’s 

critical  essay  in,  on  Dickens,  360- 
62 

Fowls,  eccentric,  343-4 
Fox  (William  Johnson),  135,  172 
Fox-under-the-Hill  (Strand),  remi- 
niscence of,  1 4 
Franldin  (Lady),  426 
Fraser  (Peter),  267 

( Freemasons’  Hall,  farewell  banquet 
1 in,  to  Dickens,  357 

1 Freemasons’  secret,  a,  254 

Free-trade  and  Lord  “ Gobden,”  215 
French  and  Americans  contrasted, 
2i8-ig 

French  philosophy,  248 
Frescoes,  perishing,  1 5 3-4  ; at  the 
1 Palazzo  Peschiere,  161 

Friday,  in  connection  with  important 
! incidents  in  Dickens’s  life,  340, 

395,  &c. 

Frith  (W.  P.),  picture  by,  at  the 
Paris  Art  Exposition,  31 1;  his 
1 portrait  of  Dickens,  339 

Funeral,  an  Englisli,  in  Italy,  179 
1 Fumival’s  inn,  room  where  the  first 
page  of  Pickwick  was  written,  429 

Gad.shiu.  Place,  a vision  of  boy- 
hood at,  2-3  (and  see  329) ; 
first  descrijition  of,  328-g  ; .sketcli 
of  porch,  329 ; jiurchascd,  330 

(and  see  317) ; antecedents  of,  330; 
improvements  and  additions, 
331-2;  sketch  of  Chalet,  332; 
nightingales,  ib.  ; Dickens’s  daily 
life  at,  332-5  ; sketch  of  house  and 
conservatory,  333  ; the  Study,  334; 
games  for  the  villagers,  423  ; Dick- 
ens’s last  days  at,  428-33 
Gambler's  Life,  Lemaitre’s  acting 
in  the,  304-5  (see  427) 

Gamp  (Mrs.),  original  of,  34  ; a 
masterpiece  of  English  humour, 
144  ; 'with  the  Strollers,  225-9 
Gaskell  (Mrs.),  257,  266,  285 
Gasman’s  compliment  to  Dickens, 

348 

Gautier  (Theophile),  221 
Geneva,  Dickens  at,  210;  revolu- 
tion at,  211-12  ; aristocracy  of,  ib. 
Genoa  described,  156-8 ; theatres, 
156-7;  religious  houses,  157; 
rooms  in  the  Palazzo  Peschiere 
hired  by  Dickens,  1 58 ; dangers 
of  the  bay,  160 ; view  over,  162; 
Governor’s  levee,  ib.  163  ; an  Eng- 
lish funeral,  1 79 ; nautical  inci- 
dent, ib. ; revisited  by  Dickens, 
291 

George  Silverman's  Explanation, 

375 

Ghost  stories  (Dickens’s),  427 
Gibson  (Milner),  265  (see  430) 
Gilbert  Massenger  (Holme  Lee’s), 
remarks  on,  by  Dickens,  418 
Giles  (WiUiam),  2 ; Dickens  at  the 
school  kept  hy,  5 ; presents  snuff- 
box to  “ Boz,”  ib. 

Gipsy  tramps,  343 

Girardin  (Emile  de),  banquets  given 
by,  in  honour  of  Dickens,  309 
Girls,  Irish,  336 ; list  of  Christian 
names  of,  381 

Gladstone  (Mr.),  and  Dickens,  27, 

432 

Glasgow,  proposed  dinner  to  Dick- 
ens at,  78 ; readings  at,  338, 
348-9,  405  ; Dickens  at  meeting 
of  Athenaeum,  231 

Glencoe,  Pass  of,  76-7  ; cflfect  on 
Dickens,  ib.  121 
Goff  (Mr.  and  Mrs.),  190 
Goldfinch  and  his  friend,  344 
Gondoliers  at  Venice,  habits  of,  295 
Gordon  (Lord  George),  character  of, 
68 

Gordon  (.Sheriff),  72-3,  267 
Gordon  (Duff),  267 
Gore-house,  222 
Gore  (Mrs.),  265 

Gower -street  - nortli,  school  in, 
opened  by  Dickens’s  mother,  8 ; 
a dreary  home,  9 (sec  342)  ; home 
broken  up,  1 1 

Graham  (Sir  James),  and  letter- 
opening,  15 1 
Graham  (Lady),  265 
Grant  (James),  recollections  of  Dick- 
ens by,  26  (and  sec  28) 

Grau  (Mr.),  356 

Graves,  town,  283  ; Dickens’s  dislike 
to  speech-making  at,  416 

Great  Expectations,  original  of  Sa  tis 
house  in,  334  ; germ  of,  368  ; the 
story  characterized,  369-71;  close 
of,  changed  at  Bulwer  Lytton’s 
suggestion,  370-71 

Great  Malvern,  cold-waterers  at, 
270-71 

Greek  war-ship,  a,  292 
Greeley  (Horace),  403  ; on  the  effect 
in  America  of  Dickens’s  death, 
383 ; on  Dickens’s  fame  as  a 
novelist,  385 ; a suggestion  from, 
394 

Green  (“  Poll  ”),  ii,  13 

Gregory  (Mr.),  the  great  chemist, 

231 

Grieve  (Thos.),  260 
Grey  (Lord),  recollection  of,  200 
Grimaldi,  Life  of,  edited  by  Dick- 
ens, 39  ; the  editor’s  modest  esti- 
mate of  it,  ib. ; criticisms  on,  ib. 
Grip,  Dickens’s  raven,  62  ; death  of, 
66-7  ; a second  Grip,  67  (death  of, 
185) 

Grisi  (Madame),  172 
Guild  of  Literature  and  Art,  origin 
of,  258  ; princely  help  of  the  Duke 
of  Devonshire,  259  (and  see  41 7)  ; 
farce  promised  by  Dickens,  258  ; 
failure  of  the  scheme,  259  ; card  of 
membership  designed  for,  260 

Haghe  (Louis),  260,  294 
Haldiman4*KM''-)>  I9’  > 

Lausanne,  190  ; Hallam’s  visit  to, 
196 

Halevy  (M.),  dinner  to,  265 
Halifax,  the  “Britannia”  aground 
off,  85 ; house  of  assembly  at, 
85-6 

Hall  (Mr.  and  Mrs.  S.  C.),  267 
Hall  (WiUiam),  80;  at  Fumival’s 
inn,  29;  premature  fears  of,  138; 
funeral  of,  223 

Hallam  (HenryJ,  talking  power,  196; 
his  niece,  ib. 

Halleck  (Fitz-Greene),  97 
Halliday  (Andrew),  430 
Hamlet,  a proposed  outrageous  per- 
formance, 134 : an  emendation 

for,  230-1  ; performed  at  Preston, 
285 

Hampstead  Heath,  Dickens’s  par- 
tiality for,  36,  58,  148-9 
Hampstcad-road,  Mr.  Jones’s  school 
in  the,  17-22 
Hardwick  (John),  265 
Hard  Times,  proposed  names  for, 
284  ; title  chosen,  ib.  ; written  for 
Household  IVords,  ib. ; Ruskin’s 
opinion  of,  ib. 

Harley  (Mr.),  the  comedian,  68,  267 
Harness  (Rev.  Wm.),  172,  266-7 
llarrisburgh  (U..S.),  Icvcc  at,  108 
Harrogate,  reading  at,  337 
Hartc  (Bret),  Dickens  on,  60;  tri- 
bute by,  to  Dickens,  ib. 

Hartford  (U.S.),  levee  at,  91  ; read- 
ing at,'  402 

1 larvaril  and  Oxford  crews,  Dickens 
at  dinner  to,  428 

INDEX.  443 

Hastings,  reading  at,  346 
llatton-garden,  Dickens  at,  275-6 
Uamttid  Man,  first  idea  of,  205 ; 
suggested  delay  of,  230 ; large 
sale  of,  254 ; dramatized,  ib. ; 
teachings  and  moral  of  the  story, 
254-5  ; the  christening  dinner,  265 
Hawthorne  (Nathaniel),  Dickens  on, 

1 254 

Haydon  (B.  R.),  death  of,  200 
Hayes  (Catherine),  265 ; startling 
j compliment  by  her  mother,  ib. 

I Hazlitt’s  hut  at  Winterslow,  262 
Headland  (Mr.)  engaged  by  Dickens, 

1 347 

1 Heaven,  ambition  to  see  into,  268 
Helps  (Sir  Arthur),  342,  422  ; In 
1 Memoriam  by,  422 

I Hewitt  (Capt.),  84-5,  88 
1 Hertzel  (M.),  192 
1 H'ghgate,  Dora’s  grave  at,  273,  285 
1 Highlands,  Dickens’s  adventures  in 
j the,  74-8 

Hillard  (Mr.),  267 
Hindle  (Rev.  Mr.),  330 
Hogarth,  Dickens  on,  246 
Hogarth  (George),  27-8 ; Dickens 
marries  eldest  daughter  of,  28 
Hogarth  (Mrs.),  164,  223  ; death  of 
her  mother,  83 

Hogarth  (Georgina),  83,  154,  160, 
164,  168,  171,  197,  208-9,  218, 
252,  260,  263,  404,  433  (see  435-6) ; 
Dickens’s  sketch  of,  133  (and  see 
379);  Maclise’s  portrait  of,  133 
Plogarth  (Mary),  death  of,  32  ; epi- 
taph on  her  tomb,  32  note  (and 
see  40) ; Dickens’s  loving  memory 
of,  32,  40,  83,  121,  164,  174  note, 
261,  428 

Holiday  Romance  and  George  Sil- 
verman’s Explanation,  high  price 
paid  for,  375  (and  see  357) 

Holland  (Lord),  178 
Holland  (Lady),  a remembrance  of, 
179 

Holland  (Captain),  the  Monthly 
Magazine  conducted  by,  27 
Hone  of  the  Every  Day  Book,  1 29 
Honesty,  Carlyle  on,  98;  under  a 
cloud,  152 

Hood  (Thomas),  135,  178;  Up  the 
Rhine  reviewed,  5 1 ; I 'ylney  Hall, 
200 

Hop-pickers,  331 
Horne  (R.  H.),  267 
Hospital  for  Sick  Children,  Dick- 
ens’s e.xertions  on  behalf  of,  326-8 ; 
described  by  Dickens,  326-7  ; 
Carol,  reading  for,  327-8 
Hotels,  American,  87,  385-8,  390-1  ; 

extortion  at,  102 
Houghton  (Lord),  420,  432 
Houghton  (Lady),  266,  422 
Household  Words  in  contemplation, 
217  note,  256-7;  Mr.  Wills  ap- 
pointed assistant  editor,  257  ; title 
selected  for,  ib.  ; names  proposed 
for,  ib. ; first  number,  ib. ; early 
contributors,  ib.  258  ; Mrs.  Gas- 
kell’s  story,  257 ; unwise  printed 

statement  in,  328  ; discontinued, 
339  (and  sec  287) 

Hudson  (George)  in  exile,  350 
HufHiam  (Mr.t,  7 

Hugo  (Victor),  an  evening  with, 
221-2 

Hulkes  (Mr.),  346 
Hull,  reading  at,  337 
Humour,  Americans  destitute  of, 
1 19;  a favourite  bit  of,  149;  the 
leading  quality  of  Dickens,  363-4  ; 
Dickens’s  enjoyment  of  his  own, 
365-6  ; the  true  province  of,  383 
Hungerford-market,  10-16 
Hunt  (Holman),  346 
Hunt  (Leigh),  saying  of,  31  ; on 
Nicholas  Nickleby,  47  ; Civil-list 
pension  given  to,  223  ; theatrical 
benefit  for,  223-5  226) ; result 

of  performances,  225 ; letter  of 
Dickens  to,  in  self-defence,  276  ; 
the  original  of  Harold  Skimpole 
in  Bleak  House,  ib.  ; inauguration 
of  bust  at  Kensal- green,  416 
Hunt  (John),  200 

Hunted  Down,  high  price  paid  for, 
344.  375  : germ  of,  376 
Hurdle  race  at  Gadshill,  423 

Imaginative  life,  tenure  of,  324 
Improprieties  of  speech,  201 
Incurable  Hospital,  patients  in,  379 
Indians,  119;  treaties  with,  108 
“ Inimitable,”  as  applied  to  Dickens, 
origin  of  the  term,  5 
Inn,  a log-house,  119 
Innkeeper,  a model,  108 
Inns,  American,  Miss  Martineau  on, 
102  (and  see  117,  119-20);  High- 
land, 74-8;  Itdian,  160,  167, 

1 70- 1,  174;  Swiss,  188 
International  boat-race  dinner,  Dick- 
ens at,  428 

Ipswich,  readings  at,  346 
Ireland,  a timely  word  on,  199 
Ireland  (Mr.  Alexander),  224 
Irving  (Washington),  82,  92,  97,  104; 
appointed  minister  to  Spain,  104  ; 
letter  from  Dickens  to,  81  ; a bad 
public  speaker,  94 ; at  Literary 
Fund  dinner  in  London,  ib. ; at 
Richmond  (U.S.),  104 
Italians  hard  at  work,  180 
Italy,  art  and  pictures  in,  169-70, 
295-6;  private  galleries,  1 70  note; 
wayside  memorials,  177  note  ; best 
season  in,  178;  fire-flies,  180  and 
note : Dickens  revisits,  290-7  ; the 
noblest  men  in  exile,  296 

Jack  Straw’s-castle  (Hampstead- 
heath),  36,  58,  148-9 
Jackson  (Sir  Richard),  123 
Jeffrey  (Lord),  67,  73,  80,  267  ; 
praise  of  Little  Nell  by,  71  ; on 
the  American  Notes,  130 ; praise 
by,  of  the  Carol,  145  ; on  the 
dimes,  168,  173;  his  opinion  of 
the  Battle  of  Life,  213;  forecast 
of  Dombey,  240  ; on  the  character 
of  Edith  in  Dombey,  242  ; James 

Sheridan  Knowles  and,  231  ; 
touching  letter  from,  250 ; death, 
of,  270 

Jenold  (Douglas),  50,  135,  172,  181, 
266,  273;  at  Miss  Kelly’s  theatre, 
184;  fancy  sketch  of,  227-8  ; last 
meeting  with  Dickens,  319  ; death 
of,  ib. ; proposed  memorial  tribute 
to,  and  result,  ib. 

Jesuits  at  Geneva,  rising  against, 
199,211-12  (and  see  169) 

Johnson  (President),  interview  of 
Dickens  with,  396  ; impeachment 
of,  399 

JoinviUe  (Prince  de),  ode  to,  158 
Jones  (Mr.),  of  Welhngton-house- 
academy,  17-20 

Jonson  (Ben),  an  experience  of,  238 
Jowett  (Prof.)  on  Dickens,  428 

ILarr  (Alphonse),  221 
Kean  (Charles)  at  Exeter,  52 
Kean  (Dumas’),  156 
Keeley  (Mrs.),  267 ; in  Nicholas 
Nickleby,  49,  147 

Kelly  (Fanny),  theatre  of,  in  Dean- 
street,  Soho,  183-5,  206 ; her 
whims  and  fancies,  183 
Kemble  (Charles)  and  his  daughters, 
266-7 

Kemble  (John),  267 
Kennedy  (Mr.),  104 
Kensal-green,  Mary  Hogarth’s  tomb 
at,  32  note,  121 

Kent  (Charles),  345  ; Dickens’s  last 
letter  to,  433 
Kenyon  (Mrs.),  266 
Kissing  the  Rod  (Edmund  Yates’s), 
418 

Knebworth,  private  performances  at, 
258-9  ; Dickens  at,  342 
Knight  (Charles),  267 
Knowles  (James  Sheridan),  bank- 
ruptcy of,  231 ; scheme  to  benefit,  ! 
ib. ; civil-list  pension  granted  to,  ib. 
Knowles  of  Cheetham-hill-road,  52 

' Ladies,  beauty  of  American,  96  ; 
eccentric,  208-9 

Laing  (Mr.),  of  Hatton  Garden,  275-6 
Lamartine  (A.  de),  158,  221,  308 
Lamb  (Charles),  boyish  recollection 
of,  4 

Lameness,  strange  remedy  for,  2 
Lamert  (Dr.),  4 
Lamert  (George),  10,  16 
Lamert  (James),  private  theatricals 
got  up  by,  4 (see  7) ; takes  young 
Dickens  to  the  theatre,  4-5  ; em- 
ploys Dickens  at  the  blacking 
warehouse,  18;  quarrel  of  John 
Dickens  with,  16  (and  see  64) 
Lamplighter,  Dickens’s  farce  of  the, 

51  ; turned  into  a tale  for  the 
benefit  of  Mrs.  Macrone,  68 
Lancaster,  reading  at,  346 
Landor  (Walter  Savage),  83,  35 1 ; 
Dickens’s  visit  to,  at  Bath,  55 ; 
mystification  of,  61  ; Longfellow 
visits,  125;  villa  at  Fiesole,  177-8 
note  ; the  original  of  Boythom  in 

444 


INDEX. 


Bleak  House,  276  ; a fancy  respect- 
ing, 405  ; Forster’s  Lifeol,  177-8 
note,  429 

Landport  (Portsca),  tlie  birthplace 
of  Dickens,  l 

Landseer  (Charles),  51,  2C7 
Landseer  (Edwin),  50,  204-5,  267, 
30s.  339 

Landseer  (Tom),  51 
Land’s-end,  a sunset  at,  13 1 
Lankester  (Dr.),  251 
Lant-street,  Borough,  Dickens’s 
lodgings  in,  13:  the  landlord’s 

family  reproduced  in  Old  Curiosity 
Shop  as  the  Garlands,  ib. 
Lausanne,  Dickens’s  home  at,  188-90; 
booksellers’  shops,  i8g  : the  town 
described,  ib.  ; view  of  Rosemont, 
190;  girl  drowned  in  lake,  191 ; 
fetes  at,  195,  198-9  ; a marriage, 
19s ; a revolution,  198-9 ; the 
prison,  19 1 ; Blind  Institution, 
191-3,  290-1  ; plague  of  flies,  194 
note  ; carriage  accident,  196;  femi- 
nine smoking  party,  208-9 ! flie 
town  revisited,  290-1 
Lawes  (Rev.  T.  B.),  club  established 
by,  at  Rothamsted,  341-2 
Lawrence  (Abbot),  207 
Layard  (A.  H.),  293 ; at  GadshiU, 
422-3 

Lazy  tourprojected,  320  (and  see  365) 
Lazzaroni,  what  they  really  are,  175-6 
Leech  (John),  at  Miss  Kelly’s  thea- 
tre, 184;  grave  mistake  by,  in 
Battle  of  Life  illustration,  215; 
fancy  sketch  of,  227;  Dickens  on 
his  Rising  Generation,  246-8; 
what  he  will  be  remembered  for, 
247-8  ; accident  to,  at  Bonchurch, 
252-3  ; at  Brighton,  249  ; at  Bou- 
logne, 300;  death  of,  352  (and  see 
373) 

Leech  (Mrs.),  253,  300 
Leeds,  reading  at,  337 
Leeds  Mechanics’  Society,  Dickens 
at  meeting  of  the,  231 
Legends  and  Lyrics  (Adelaide  Proc- 
ter’s), 418-ig 

Legerdemain  in  perfection,  301-2 
Leghorn,  Dickens  at,  291-2 
Legislatures,  local,  108 
Legouvet  (M.),  308 
Lehmann  (Frederic),  333,  346 
Leigh  (Percival),  at  Miss  Kelly’s 
theatre,  184 

Lemaitre  (Frederic),  acting  of,  304-5 
(and  see  427) 

Lemon  (Mark),  273;  at  Miss  Kelly’s 
theatre,  184;  as  Falstaff,  232; 
fancy  sketch  of,  227  ; Haunted 
Man  adapted  by,  254 ; farce  writ- 
ten for  the  Guild,  259  ; acting  with 
children,  288  ; death  of,  432 
Leslie  (CharlesRobert),305  (see  103) 
Letter-opening  at  the  General  Post- 
Office,  15 1 

Levees  in  the  United  States,  91,  103, 
108,  no,  114-15,  118;  queer  cus- 
tomers at,  no;  what  they  are 
like,  1 18 


Lever  (Charles),  177  ; tale  by,  in  All 
the  Year  Round,  342 
Lewes  (George  Henry),  Dickens’s  re- 
gard for,  267  ; his  critical  essay  on 
Dickens,  in  the  Fortnightly  Re- 
view, noticed,  360-2 
Library,  a gigantic,  202-3 
Life  of  Christ,  written  by  Dickens 
for  his  children,  193  (see  415-16) 
Life-preservers,  in 
Lighthouse,  Carlyle  on  Dickens’s 
acting  in  the,  289 ; Stanfield’s 
scene  painted  for,  341 
Lincoln  (President),  curious  story 
respecting,  395-6  (and  see  422) 
Lincoln’s-inn-fields,  a reading  of  the 
Chimes  va,  168,  172 
Linda,  Dickens’s  dog,  333-4,  426 ; 

burial-place  of,  335 
Liston  (Robert),  267 
Literary  F und  dinner,  94  (and  see  41") 
Literature,  a substitute  for,  122  ; too 
much  “patronage”  of,  in  Eng- 
land, 416-17 

Litterateur,  a fellow,  220 
Little  Dorrit  begun,  289 ; the  title 
that  was  first  chosen,  314;  fac- 
simile of  plan  prepared  for  first 
number,  316;  sale  of,  ib.\  gene- 
ral design,  314;  weak  points  in, 
317;  criticized  in  Blackwood,  318; 
Von  Moltke  and,  ib. ; original  of 
Mrs.  Clennam,  375  ; notions  for, 
ib.,  376 

Little  Nell,  first  thought  of,  56 ; Flo- 
rence Dombey  and,  241 
Liverpool,  readings  at,  335,  349, 
354-5  ; Dickens’s  speech  at  Mecha- 
nics’Institution,  147;  LeighHunt’s 
benefit,  223-5  22(i) ; public  din- 

ner to  Dickens,  406,  420 
Loch-earn-head,  postal  service  at,  76 
Lockhart  (Mr.  J.),  51,  293 
Locock  (Dr.),  265 
Lodi,  Dickens  at,  169-71 
Logan  Stone,  Stanfield’s  sketch  of, 

131 

London,  pictures  of,  in  Dickens’s 
books,  47 ; readings  in,  335,  346, 

349.  353.  4°S.  430-i 
Longfellow  (Henry  Wadsworth),  87, 
97  ; among  London  thieves  and 
tramps,  125  (and  see  136);  at  Gads- 
hill.  333,  404 ; on  Dickens’s  death, 

383 

Longman  (Thomas),  265 
Louis  Philippe,  a glimpse  of,  218 
(see  308) ; dethronement  of,  243 
Lovelace  (Lord),  265 
Lowther,  Mr.  (charge  d’affaires  at 
Naples),  difficulty  in  finding  house 
of,  292-4 

Lumley  (Mr.),  2G5 
Lynn  (Mr.),  330 

Lytton  (Lord),  176,  427  (and  sec 
342) ; Dickens’s  admiration  for,  64, 
259,  266,  342  ; performance  of  his 
comedy  of  Not  so  Bad  as  we  Seem 
at  Devonshire  House,  259  ; at 
Manchester,  261  ; his  o])inion  of 
Copperfield,  274;  Strange  Story 


contributed  to  All  the  Year  Round, 
342,  347  ; Dickens’s  reply  to  re- 
monstrance from,  363  ; suggestion 
as  to  close  of  Great  Expectations, 
370-71  ; letter  of  Dickens  to,  from 
Cambridge  (U.S.),  concerning  the 
Webster  murder,  390 ; death  of, 
and  character,  259 
Lytton  (Robert),  305 

MTan  the  actor,  72-3 
Mackenzie  (Dr.  Shelton)  and  Cruik- 
shank’s  illustrations  to  Oliver 
Twist,  43  note 

Machse  (Daniel),  50,  63,  73,83,  125, 
135,  168,  172,  181,  184;  social 
charm  of,  50 ; his  play-scene  in 
Haynlet,  105  ; among  London 
tramps,  125 ; sketches  in  Corn- 
wall by,  13 1-2  ; letter  from,  on  the 
Cornwall  trip,  ib.  ; his  “ Girl  at 
the  Waterfall,”  132;  paints  Mrs. 
Dickens’s  portrait,  ib.  ; pencil 
drawing  of  Charles  Dickens,  his 
wife,  and  her  sister,  133  ; Dickens’s 
address  to,  153-4;  sketch  of  the 
private  reading  in  Lincoln’s-inn- 
fields,  172;  house  in  Devonshire- 
terrace  sketched  by,  274 ; death 
of,  43 1 ; tribute  of  Dickens  to, 

432 

Macready  (William  Charles),  50-1, 
68,  81-2,97, 135;  at  Covent-garden, 
39 ; dinner  to,  on  his  retirement 
from  management,  5 1 ; dinner  prior 
to  American  visit,  135;  an  appre- 
hended disservice  to,  ib. ; in  New 
Orleans,  149;  in  Paris,  172,  305; 
Dickens’s  affection  for,  167,  265; 
farewell  dinner  to,  259;  at  Sher- 
borne, 324  ; his  opinion  of  the 
Sikes  and  Na7icy  scenes,  405  ; mis- 
giving of  Dickens  respecting,  430 
Macready  (Mrs.),  265  ; death  of,  286 
Macrone  (Mr.),  cop5'right  of  Sketches 
by  Boz  sold  to,  28  ; scheme  to  re- 
issue Sketches,  32  ; c.xorbitant  de- 
mand by,  32-3  ; close  of  dealings 
with,  33 

Magnetic  experiments,  in 
Makeham  (Mr.),  Dickens’s  letter  to, 
416 

Malleson  (Mr.),  346 
Mai  thus  philosophy,  199 
M.anagerial  troubles,  253,  260-1 
Afanby  (Charles),  jileasing  trait  of, 350 
Alanchestcr,  Dickens’s  speech  n.t 
opening  of  Athenreum,  136  (and 
see  339) ; Leigh  Hunt’s  benefit, 
225;  readings  at,  337,  346,  349, 
353-4 

Manchester  (Bishop  of),  on  Dickens’s 
writings,  383 
Manin  (Daniel),  305 
Mannings,  execution  of  the,  268 
Ma/wn  Lcscaut,  Auber's  opera  of,  30S 
Alansion-liouse  dinner  to  “ iiterature 
and  art,”  268;  a doubtful  compli- 
ment, ib.  ; suppressed  letter  oC 
Dickens  respccling,  ib. 

Manson  (Air.),  7 


INDEX.  445 

Marcct  (Mrs.),  190,  ig6,  206 
Margate  theatre,  burlesque  of  classic 
tragedy  at,  126  (and  see  230) 
!Mario  (Signor),  172 
Marryat  (Captain)  on  the  effect  in 
America  o{\\viNicklehy  dedication, 
135  ; fondness  of,  for  children,  266 
Marshalsea  prison,  Dickens’s  first 
and  last  visits  to,  8,317-18;  an  in- 
cident in,  described  by  Dickens, 
15  (and  see  317-18) 
jMarston’s  (Mr.  Westland)  Patri- 
cian's Daughter,  Dickens’s  pro- 
logue to,  132 

!Martineau  (Harriet)  on  American 
inns,  102 

Martin  Chuzzlewit,  agreement  for, 
80-1  (and  see  137-8);  original  of 
Eden,  108-9 ; fancy  for  opening, 
126,  132;  first  year  of,  131-7; 
names  first  given  to,  132  ; Sydney 
Smith’s  opinion  of  first  nnmber,  ib. 
(see  141);  original  of  Mrs.  Gamp, 

1 34  ; sale  less  than  former  books, 
137-8  (and  see  255) ; unlucky  clause 
in  agreement,  138;  Dickens’s  own 
opinion  of,  ib.  ; the  story  charac- 
terized, 14 1 -4;  Thackeray’s  favour- 
ite scene,  143;  intended  motto  for, 
ib. ; M.  Taineon,  142-3  ; christen- 
ing dinner,  15 1 

Master  Humphrey's  Clock  projected, 
53-5 ; first  sale  of,  56 ; first  num- 
ber published,  62 ; original  plan 
abandoned,  56  (see  284) ; dinner 
in  celebration  of,  67 ; Clock  dis- 
contents, 80-1 

Mazeppa  at  Ramsgate,  185  note 
Jilazzini  (Joseph),  Dickens’s  interest 
in  his  sehool,  267 

ISIeadows  (Mr.),  of  Covent  Garden, 

430 

Mediterranean,  sunset  on  the,  153 
Memoires  du  Diable,  a pretty  tag 
to,  307 

^Memoranda,  extracts  from  Dickens’s 
book  of,  375-82 ; available  names 
in,  381-2 

^Mendicity  Society,  the,  150 
jMesmerism,  Dickens’s  interest  in, 
80,  253 

iMicawber  (Mr.),  in  David  Copper- 
field,  original  of,  277  ; comparison 
between,  and  Harold  Skimpole, 
277-8  ; Mr.  G.  H.  Lewes  on,  362 
IMiddle  Temple,  Dickens  entered  at, 

51 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream  at  the 
Opera  Comique,  Boulogne,  299 
Mihies  (Monckton),  266 
Mirror  of  Parliament,  Dickens  re- 
porting for,  24  (see  27) 

^Mississippi,  the,  114-15 
Mistletoe  from  England,  389 
Mitchell  (Mr.),  the  comedian,  126 
Mitton  (Thomas),  22,  50-1,  267 
iMolesworth  (Lady),  265 
!Molloy  (Mr.),  22 

iMoltke  (Von)  and  Little  Dorrit,  318 
iMonks  and  painters,  1 70  and  note 
iMont  Blanc,  effect  of,  on  Dickens,  197 

^Montreal,  private  theatricals  in,  123- 
5 ; fac-simile  of  play-bill,  124 
Moore  (George),  business  qualities 
and  benevolence,  342-3 
Moore  (Thomas),  71,  94 
Morgue  at  Paris,  218;  a tenant  of 
the,  218,  220 

Morning  Chronicle,  Dickens  a re- 
porter for  the,  24 ; liberality  of 
proprietors,  25  ; change  of  editor- 
ship, 135  (see  27-8  and  149-50); 
articles  by  Dickens  in,  149 
Morning  Herald,  John  Dickens  a 
reporter  for,  23 
Morris  (Mowbray),  265 
Morris  (General  George),  92 
Motley  (Mr.),  432 

Moulineaux,  Villa  des,  297-9,  302-4 
Mountain  travelling,  197 
Mr.  Nightingale' s Diary,  the  Guild 
farce,  260,  289 
Mrs.  Lirriper' s Lodgings, 

Mugby  Junction,  The  Boy  at,  375  ; 

germ  of,  in  Memoranda,  379 
Mule-traveUing  in  Switzerland,  197, 
2go 

Mulgrave  (Lord),  85-7,  123-4,  265 
Mumbo-Jumbo,  254 
Murray  (Mr.)  the  manager,  72 
Murray  (Lord),  73,  267 
Music,  its  effect  on  a deaf,  dumb, 
and  blind  girl,  193;  vagrant,  230, 

253 

Names,  available,  381-2 
Naples,  burial-place  at,  175  note; 
filth  of,  1 75  (and  see  297) ; Dickens’s 
adventure  at,  291-2 
Napoleon  III.  at  Gore-house,  222 ; 

at  Boulogne,  300-1 ; at  Paris,  305 
Nautical  incident  at  Genoa,  179 
Neaves  (Mr.),  73 
Negri  (Marquis  di),  158-9 
Negro  in  America,  objections  to,  395  «- 
New  Bedford  (U.S.),  reading  at, 
401-2 

Newcastle,  readings  at,  346,  348, 
355  ; alarming  scene  at,  348 
Newhaven  (U.S.),  levee  at,  91 ; read- 
ing at,  398 

New  Sentimental  Journey  (CoWms's), 

346 

Newspaper  express  forty  years  ago, 

25 

Newspaper-press-fund  dinner,  Dick- 
ens’s speech  at,  25-6 
Newspapers,  American,  389 
Newsvendors’  dinner,  Dickens  at, 

,431 

New  Testament,  Dickens’s  version 
of,  193  (see  415-16) 

New-year’s  day  in  Paris,  310 
New  York  invitations  to  Dickens, 
90;  the  Carlton  hotel,  92  (and  see 
388) ; ball  at,  92-3 ; life  in,  95  ; 
hotel  bills,  97  (and  see  102) ; public 
institutions  ill-managed,  99 ; pri- 
sons, 92-102;  capital  punishment, 
100;  sale  of  tickets  for  the  read- 
ings, 387  ; first  reading  in,  ib. ; fire 
at  the  Westminster  hotel,  ib. ; pro- 

digious  increase  since  Dickens’s 
former  visit,  ib.^88 ; Niblo’s  theatre, 

388 ; sleigh-driving,  ib. ; police, 
ib.  389  (and  see  99-102) ; the  Irish 
element,  393 ; farewell  readings, 

402  ; public  dinner  to  Dickens,  ib. 

403 

New  York  Herald,  93-94 
New  York  Ledger,  high  price  paid 
for  tale  by  Dickens  in,  344 
New  York  Tribune,  Dickens’s  “vio- 
lated letter”  published  in  the, 

.328,  337 

Niagara  Falls,  effect  of,  on  Dickens,  ; 

1 20- 1 (and  see  399-400) 

Nicholas  Nickleby,  agreement  for, 

40 ; first  number  of,  42,  45-6 ; sale 
of,  42  ; the  Saturday  Review  on, 

46  ; characters  in,  46-8  (see  385) ; 
opinions  of  Sydney  Smith  and 
Leigh  Hunt  on,  46-7  (see  49) ; 
Dickens  at  work  on,  48-9 ; dinner 
celebration,  49-50 ; originals  of  the 
Brothers  Cheeryble,  50  ; theatrical 
adaptation  of,  48-9 ; originals  of 
Mr.  Micawber  and  Mrs.  Nickleby, 
276-7  ; proclamation  on  the  eve  of 
publication,  148  note ; its  effect  in 
establishing  Dickens,  363-4 
Nicolson  (Sir  Frederick),  179 
Nightingales  at  GadshUl,  332 
Nobody's  Fault,  the  title  first  chosen 
for  Little  Dorrit,  314 
No-Popery  riots,  description  of  the, 

69 

Normanby  (Lord),  151,  218 
Norton  (Charles  Eliot),  333,  404 
Norwich,  readings  at,  346 
No  Thoroughfare,  38,  375 
Novels,  real  people  in,  274-5;  epi- 
sodes in,  317 

Novelists,  design  for  cheap  edition 
of  the  old,  229-30 
Nugent  (Lord),  266 

O’Connell  (Daniel),  159-60 
Odeon  (Paris),  Dickens  at  the,  306 
Ogre  and  lambs,  201 
Ohio,  on  the,  1 12-13 
Old  Curiosity  Shop,  original  of  the 
Marchioness  in,  13  ; originals  of 
the  Garland  family,  ib. ; original 
of  the  poet  in  Jarley’s  waxwork, 

16 ; the  story  commenced,  56 ; dis- 
advantages of  weekly  publica- 
tion, ib. ; changes  in  proofs,  57  ; 
Maclise’s  wish  to  illustrate,  58  ; 

Dick  SwiveUer  and  the  Marchio- 
ness, 57-8  ; effect  of  story  upon 
the  writer,  58 ; death  of  Little 
Nell,  ib. ; elose  of  the  tale,  59  (see 
66) ; its  success,  59  ; characterized, 
59-60 ; a tribute  by  Bret  Harte, 

60  ; characters  in,  364 
Old  Monthly  Magazine,  Dickens’s 
first  published  piece  in,  25  ; other 
sketches,  27 

Oliver  Twist,  commenced  in  Bent- 
ley's Miscellany,  32 ; characters 
in,  real  to  Dickens,  33-4,  40-1  ; 
the  sto-y  characterized,  40-r,  44-5  ; 

446 


INDEX. 


Dickens  at  work  on,  42  ; the  last 
chapter,  ib.  ; the  Cruiksliank  il- 
lustrations, 42-3,  235-8  ; reputa- 
tion of,  43  ; reply  to  attacks 
against,  44  ; teaching  of,  44-5 ; 
“ adapted  ” for  the  stage,  48  ; 
noticed  in  the  Quarterly  Review, 

5 r ; copyright  repurchased,  63  ; 
original  of  Mr.  Fang,  275-C; 
character-drawing  in,  363 ; pro- 
posed reading  from,  404 ; fac- 
simile of  portion  of  MS.,  41 1 
Orford  (Lord),  342 
Osgood  (Mr.),  398-9 
Opium-den,  an,  429 
Osnaburgh-terrace,  family  difficult)- 
in,  1 50- 1 

Our  Mutual  Frie7id,  title  chosen 
for,  371  ; hints  for,  in  Memoranda, 
377  ; first  notion  for,  371  ; original 
of  Mr.  Venus,  373  ; the  story'  re- 
viewed, 374 

Ouvry  (Frederic),  433 ; clause  in- 
serted by,  in  agreement  for  Edwin 
Drood,  408  note  ; humorous  letters 
of  Dickens  to,  400-1,  427 
Overs  (John),  Dickens’s  interest  in, 
15 1 ; death  of,  ib.  note 
Owen  (Prof.),  268 
O.Kford  the  pot-boy  traitor,  62 

Paintings,  Dickens  on,  169-70, 
295-6 

Paradise  Lost  at  the  Ambigu,  Paris, 
3^-7 

Paris,  Dickens’s  first  day  in,  217; 
Sunday  in,  ib. ; Dickens’s  houses 
described,  ib.  305  ; unhealthy  poli- 
tical symptoms,  218  ; the  Morgue, 
ib.  220 ; incident  in  streets,  218; 
population  of,  ib.  219  ; hard  frost, 
219;  an  alarming  neighbour,  ib. 
220 ; begging-letter  writers,  220  ; 
sight-seeing,  221  ; theatres,  ib. 
305-7  ; the  Praslin  tragedy,  230 ; 
Dickens’s  life  in,  304-14  ; personal 
attentions  to  Dickens,  305  ; regi- 
ments in  streets,  310  ; illumination 
of,  ib.  ; New-year’s  day,  ib.  ; Art 
Exposition,  ib.  3 1 1 : a Duchess 
murdered,  312-13;  readings  at, 

346,  350 

Parliament,  old  Houses  of,  incon- 
venience of  the,  26 
Parr  (Harriet),  Dickens’s  letter  to, 
418 

Parry  (John),  267 

Pawnbrokers,  Dickens’s  earl)-  expe- 
rience of,  9 

Peel  (.Sir  Robert),  and  his  party, 
7S-9  ; Lord  Ashley  and  Peel,  81  ; 
the  Whigs  and  Peel,  199 
Perth,  reading  at,  338 
I’eschiere,  Palazzo  (Genoa),  rooms 
in,  hired  by  Dickens,  158;  a fel- 
low-tenant, ib. ; other  tenants, 
179;  described,  161-2;  view  of 
the  palace,  161  ; revisited,  291  ; 
dinner-party  at,  171;  owner  of 
the,  291 

Petersham,  athletic  sports  at,  50-1 


Phelps  (Mr.),  267 

I’hiladelphia,  Dickens  at,  98-105; 
penitentiary  at,  102  ; levee  at, 
103 ; letters  from,  398  (and  see 

130) 

Pichot  (Amedee),  221,  308 
Pickwick  Papers,  materials  for,  15  ; 
first  number,  28-9 ; origin  of,  ib.  ■, 
Seymour’s  illustrations,  29  (see  ib. 
note)  ; Thackeray’s  offer  to  illus- 
trate, 30 ; suspended  for  two 
months,  32  (see  64  note) ; the 
debtors’  prison,  34 ; popularity  of, 
35  (and  see  385) ; reality  of  cha- 
racters, 35  ; inferior  to  later  books, 
ib.  ; Mr.  Pickwick  an  undying 
character,  ib.  (and  see  29,  385): 
piracies  of,  38 ; completion  of, 
39 ; payments  for,  40 ; a holy 
brother  of  St.  Bernard  and,  203  ; 
characters  in,  363 ; where  it  was 
begun,  429 ; first  popular  edition 
of,  230  ; translated  into  Russian, 
256  ; Lord  Campbell  on,  289 
Pictures  fjom  Italy,  original  of  the 
courier  in,  171  ; publication  com- 
menced in  the  Daily  News,  187 
Pic  Nic  Papers  published,  68  (see 
33) 

Pictures,  subjects  for,  304-5 
“ Piljians  Projiss,”  a new,  225-9 
Pig-market  at  Boulogne,  299 
Pipchin  (Mrs.)  in  Dornbey,  original 
of,  1 1-12,  15,  239 

Pirates,  literary,  147  ; proceedings 
in  Chancery  against,  ib.  148 ; 
warning  to,  148  note 
Pisa,  a jaunt  to,  291 
Pittsburgh  (U.S.),  description  of, 
1 10 ; levees  at,  ib.  ; solitary 
prison,  113 

Plessy  (M.),  acting  of,  305 
Poets,  small,  417 
Political  squibs  by  Dickens,  78-9 
Poole  (John),  aid  rendered  to,  by 
Dickens,  223  (see  226) ; granted  a 
civil-list  pension,  231  ; at  Regnier’s 
child’s  funeral,  251 
Poor,  Dickens’s  sympathy  with  the, 
47,  70,  163,  193 
Popularity,  distresses  of,  95 
Porte  St.  Martin  theatre  (Paris), 
Dickens  at,  306 

Portland  (U.S.),  burnt  and  rebuilt, 
401  ; readings  at,  ib. 

Portrait  painter,  story  of  a,  427 
Portsea,  birth  of  Dickens  at,  1 
Potter,  a fellow-clerk  of  Dickens’s, 
22 

Power  (Miss  Marguerite),  345 
Prairie,  an  American,  117;  1"'0' 
nunciations  of  the  word,  118 
Praslin  tragedy  in  Paris,  230 
Prayer,  Dickens  on  personal,  416 
Prescott  (W.  IL),  267 
Preston  (Mr.),  103 

I’reston,  a strike  at,  285 ; Hamlet 
at,  ib. 

Primrose  (Mr.),  73 
Printers’  Pension  fund  dinner,  pre- 
sided over  by  Dickens,  135 


Prisons,  visits  to  London,  Ro ; Ame- 
rican, 99-102,  1 13;  Lausanne, 

191  ; comparison  of  systems  pur- 
sued in,  101-2 

Procter  (Bryan  Waller),  177,  276, 
430 ; Dickens’s  affection  for,  265 
Procter  (Mrs.),  265 
Procter  (Adelaide),  Dickens’s  ap- 
preciation of  her  poems,  418 
Providence  (U.S.),  reading  at,  398 
Publishers,  hasty  compacts  with, 
32-3,  36-7,  45  ; Dickens’s  agree- 
ments with,  145,  286  (and  see 

339-41) 

Publishers  and  authors,  138,  140, 

417 

Puddings,  a choice  of,  12 
‘■'■Punch  people”  and  Lord 
Brougham,  265 ; at  a Mansion- 
house  dinner,  268 

Q,  Dickens’s  secretary  in  the  United 
~ States,  87,  92,  94,  102,  109-11, 

1 1 7-20;  described,  122-3 
Quack  doctor’s  proclamation,  78-9 
Quarterly  Review  notice  of  Oliver 
Twist,  51 

Queen  (Her  Majesty  the)  and  Auber, 
308 ; alleged  offers  to  Dickens, 
421 ; desire  to  see  Dickens  act, 
ib. ; Thackeray’s  copy  of  the 
Carol,  ib.  ; Dickens’s  interview 
w'ith,  422 ; grief  at  Dickens’s 
death,  434 
Quin  (Dr.),  64,  264 

Rachel  (Madame),  caprice  of,  308 
Ragged  schools,  Dickens’s  interest 
in,  136;  results  of,  ib.  note  (and 
see  193) ; proposed  paper  on,  by 
Dickens,  declined  by  Edinburgh 
Review,  136 

Railroads,  American,  ladies’  cars 
on,  99 

Railway  travelling,  effect  on  Dick- 
ens, 405  ; in  America,  98-9,  109, 
388,  392,  400-1 

Ramsay  (Dean)  on  Bleak  House  and 
Jo,  283 

Ramsgate,  entertainments  at,  185 
note 

Raven,  death  of  Dickens’s  first, 
66-7  ; of  second,  185 
Raymond  (George),  267 
Rcadc  (Charles),  Hard  Cash  con- 
tributed by,  to  All  the  Year 
Round,  342 

Readings,  private,  in  Scheffer’s 
atelier,  311;  in  Lincoln’s-inn- 
iields,  168,  172;  public,  Dick- 
ens’s first  thoughts  of,  172, 
206-7,  287  ; argument  against 
paid,  287-8,  327  ; idea  revived, 
325  ; disadvantages  of,  ib. ; 
proposal  from  Mr.  Beale  rc- 
specling,  3-7  I various  ma- 
nagers cm]iloyed  by  Dickens, 
335 ; hard  work  involved,  tb. 
352,  403  ; study  given  to,  356 
first  .seiies,  335-9;  subjects  of,  33S 
second  scries,  344-50;  what  it 


INDEX. 


447 


Readings  given  by  Dickens  : 

comprised,  346 ; new  subjects 
for,  347 

third  series,  350-57  ; hlessrs.  Chap- 
pell's connection  with,  352-3 
American,  385-403  ; result  of,  394, 
404 

Australian,  contemplated,  349 
(abandoned),  350 
Provincial  tour,  335,  346 
last  series,  403-8 
Readings  (alphabetical  list  of) : 
Aberdeen,  338 

Albany(U.S.),40i;  receiptsat,  402 
Baltimore  (U.S.),  394,  398 ; re- 
ceipts at,  402 
Belfast,  336-7 

Berwick-on-Tweed,  346,  348 
Birmingham,  287-8,  346,  354 
Boston  (U.S.),  386,  398-9,  402 ; 

receipts  at,  402 
Bradford,  287-8 
Brighton,  346-7 

Brookljm  (New  York),  392,  394-5 ; 
receipts  at,  402 

BufFalo(U.S.),  399  ; receipts  at,  402 

Buty  St.  Edmunds,  346 

Cambridge,  356 

Canterbury,  346,  348 

Carbsle,  346 

Cheltenham,  346 

Chester,  346,  354 

Clifton,  405 

Colchester,  346 

Coventry,  288 

Dover,  346,  348 

Dublin,  336,  355-6 

Dundee,  338 

Edinburgh,  337-8,  348,  405 
Exeter,  335 

Glasgow,  338,  348-9,  405 
Harrogate,  337 
Hartford  (U.S.),  402 
Hastings,  346 
HuU,  337 
Ipswich,  346 
Lancaster,  346 
Leeds,  337 

Liverpool,  335,  349,  354-5 
London,  335,  346,  349,  353,  405, 

430-1 

Manchester,  337,  346,  349,  353-4 
New  Bedford  (U.S),  401-2  ; re- 
ceipts at,  402 
Newcastle,  346,  348,  355 
Newhaven  (U.S.),  398 ; receipts 
at,  402 

New  York,  387,  402  ; receipts  at, 
402 

Norwich,  346 
Paris,  346,  350 
Perth,  338 

Philadelphia,  394-5  : receipts  at , 402 
Plymouth,  346 

Portland  (U.S.),  401  ; receipts  at, 
402 

Preston,  346 

Providence  (U.S.),  398  ; receipts 
at,  402 

Rochester  (U.S.),  399:  receipts 
at,  ib.  402 


Readings  given  by  Dickens  : 
Sheffield,  337 
Springfield  (U.S.),  402 
Syracuse  (U.S.),  399  ; receipts  at, 
ib.  402 

Torquay,  346,  349,  405 
Washington  (U.S.),  395-8  ; re- 
ceipts at,  402 
Worcester  (U.S.),  402 
York,  337,  406 
Reeves  (Sims),  267 
Regnier  (M.)  of  the  Fran9ais,  221, 

251.  305,  308-9 

Rehearsals,  troubles  at,  224-5 
Religion,  what  is  the  true,  164 
Reporters’  gallery,  Dickens  enters 
the,  24  ; ceases  connexion  with,  30 
Reporter’s  life,  Dickens’s  own  ex- 
perience of  a,  25-6  (and  see  200) 
Revolution  at  (jeneva,  2 1 1 - 1 2 ; traces 
left  by,  212  ; abettors  of,  ib. 
Rhine,  Dickens  on  the,  187-8;  tra- 
velling Englishmen,  188 
Richard  Doubledick,  Story  314 
Richardson  (Sir  John),  179  note 
Richardson’s  show,  a religious,  350 
Richmond  (U.S.),  levees  at,  105 
Rifle-shooting,  Lord  Vernon’s  pas- 
sion for,  201-2  ; at  Lausanne,  195  ; 
at  Geneva,  21 1 

R ising  Generation  (Leech’s) , Dickens 
on,  247-8 

Ristori  (Madame),  in  Medea,  308 
Roberts  (David),  260,  294 
Robertson  (Peter),  71,  73,  160,  267  ; 

sketch  of,  71 
Robertson  (T.  W.),  430 
Roche  (Louis),  employed  by  Dickens 
as  his  courier  in  Italy,  150;  re- 
engaged, 187 : resources  of,  168, 
171, 180, 197,  216-17;  illness  of,  248 
Rochester,  early  impressions  of,  3, 
82  (and  see  433) ; Watts’s  Charity, 
314  note  (see  332) 
Rochester-bridge  (old),  332 
Rochester  Castle,  adventure  at,  125 
Rochester  Catheffi-al,  brass  tablet  in, 
to  Dickens's  memory,  314  note 
Rochester  (U.S.),  alarming  incident 
at.  399 

Rockingham-castle,  Dickens’s  visit 
to,  268-9  > private  theatricals  at, 
269,  292 

Rocky  Mountain  Sneezer,  a,  392 
Rogers  (Samuel),  71, 8i,  266;  sudden 
illness  of,  264  ; his  waistcoats,  265 
Rome,  Dickens’s  first  impressions  of, 
175:  Dickens  again  at,  294-5;  ^ 
“ scattering  ” party  at  Opera,  294  ; 
marionetti,  ib. ; malaria,  ib.  295 
Rosemont  (Lausanne),  taken  by 
Dickens,  188-9;  view  of,  190  (see 
200) ; Dickens’s  neighbours,  190, 
196  ; Dombey  begun,  193  ; the 
landlord  of,  194  note 
Rothamsted,  Rev.  Mr.  Lawes’s  club 
at,  341-2 

Royal  Academy  dinner,  Dickens’s 
last  public  words  spoken  at,  432 
“ Royalties,”  Dickens  on  payment 

by.  417 


Roylance  (Mrs.),  the  original  of  Mrs. 

Pipchin  in  Dombey,  1 1-12,  15 
Ruskin  (Mr.),  on  Hard  Times,  284 
Russell  (Lord  J.),  193,  199;  a friend 
of  letters,  223,  231  ; on  Dickens’s 
letters,  415;  dinner  with,  270; 
Dickens’s  tribute  to,  420 

Sala  (G.  A.),  Dickens’s  opinion  of, 
257-8;  tribute  by,  to  Dickens's 
memory^  425 

Salisbury  Plain,  superiority  of,  to  an 
American  prairie,  1 1 7 ; a ride 
over,  262 

Samson  (M.),  221,  265 
Sand  (Georges),  308-9 
Sandeau  (Jules),  309 
Sandusky  (U.S.),  discomforts  of  inn 
at,  1 19 

Sardinians,  Dickens’s  liking  for,  296 
Satirist,  editor  of,  hissed  from  the 
Covent-garden  stage,  134 
Saturday  Review  on  the  realities  of 
Dickens’s  characters,  46 
Scene-painting  at  Tavistock- house, 

319 

Scheffer  (Ary),  305  ; his  portrait  of 
Dickens,  310-12;  reading  of 
Cricket  on  the  Hearth  in  atelier 
of,  311 

Scheffer  (Henri),  312 
Schools,  public,  Dickens  on,  339 
Scotland,  readings  in,  337-8 
Scott  (SirW.),  boyish  recollections 
of,  2,  5 ; real  people  in  his  novels, 
2/5,  277  ; incident  in  his  life,  362 
Scott  monument  at  Edinburgh,  231 
Scribe  (M.),  dinner  to,  265  ; social 
intercourse  of  Dickens  with,  221, 
307  ; author-anxieties  of,  308  ; a 
fine  actor  lost  in,  ib. 

Scribe  (Madame),  308 
Sea-bathing  and  authorship,  127 
Seaside  holidays,  Dickens’s,  243-54, 
297-304 

Sebastopol,  reception  in  France  of 
supposed  fall  of,  30 1 
Serenades  at  Hartford  and  New- 
haven (U.S.),  92  ; at  Cincinnati, 
114 

Serle  (Mr.),  135 

Servants,  Swiss,  excellence  of,  194-5 
Seven  Dials,  ballad  literature  of,  64 
Seymour  (Mr.),  and  the  Pickwick 
Papers,  29  and  note ; death  of,  30 
Shaftesbury  (Lord),  and  ragged 
schools,  81,  136,  273 
Shakespeare  Society,  the,  51  (see 

149) 

Shakespeare  and  Ben  Jonson,  238 
Shakespeare’s  house,  purchase  of, 

231 

Sheffield,  reading  at,  337 
Sheil  (Richard  Lalor),  135 
Shepherd’s-bush,  home  for  fallen 
women  at,  271 

Sheridans  (the),  265  (see  218) 

Ship  news  on  the  Atlantic,  85 
Short-hand,  difficulties  of,  23 
Shows,  Saturday-night,  13-14 
Siddons  (Mrs.),  genius  of,  266-7 


INDEX. 


4^2 


Sierra  Nevada,  strange  encounter  on 
the,  384-S 

Sikes  and  Nancy  reading,  j)roposed, 
404-5  ; at  Clifton,  405  ; Macready 
on  the,  ib. ; at  York,  406 ; Dick- 
ens’s pulse  after,  431 
Simplon,  passing  the,  172 
“ Six”  (Bachelor),  305 
Sketches  by  Boz,  first  collected  and 
published,  28,  29;  characterized, 

30 

Slavery  in  America,  96,  104-5,  I'S- 
16,  149;  a slave  burnt  alive,  115; 
the  ghost  of  slavery,  395 
Slaves,  runaway,  116 
Sleeplessness,  Dickens’s  remedy  for, 
343 

Sleighs  in  New  York,  388 
“ Slopping  round,”  400 
“Smallness  of  the  world,”  25,  29, 
no 

Smith  (Albert),  Battle  of  Life 
dramatized  by,  219 
Smith  (Arthur),  328,  337 ; first 
series  of  Dickens’s  readings  under 
his  management,  328  ; first  por- 
tion of  second  series  planned  by, 
346  ; serious  illness  of,  347  ; death, 
ib. 

Smith  (Bobus),  178 
Smith  (O.),  acting  of,  48,  147 
Smith  (Porter),  267 
Smith  (Southwood),  135,  151 
Smith  (Sydney),  91,  15 1 ; on  Nicho- 
las Nickleby,  46 ; on  Martin 
Chuzzlewit,  132,  141  ; death  of, 
179 

Smithson  (Mr.),  50,  67  ; death  of, 
146 

Smoking  party,  a feminine,  209 
Smollett  (Tobias),  a recollection  of, 
34  ; real  people  in  his  novels,  275 
(see  317) 

Snuff-shop  readings  of  Dombey.  223 
Solitary  confinement,  effects  of,  102, 
‘‘91 

Somebody's  Luggage,  the  Waiter  in, 

371 

Sortes  Shandyanae,  194 
Sparks  (Jared),  87 
Speculators,  American,  386-7,  398 
Spitto&ns  in  America,  99 
Springfield  (U.S.),  reading  at,  402 
Squib  Annual,  the,  29 
St.  Bernard,  Great,  proposed  trip 
to,  202  ; ascent  of  the  mountain, 
203 ; the  convent,  ib. ; scene  at 
the  top,  ib.  ; bodies  found  in  the 
snow,  ib. ; the  convent  a tavem 
in  all  but  .sign,  ib.  ; Dickens’s 
fancy  of  writing  a book  about,  324 
St.  George  (Madame),  172 
St.  Giles’s,  Dickens’s  easiy  attrac- 
tion of  repulsion  to,  7 ; original  of 
klr.  Venus  found  in,  373 
St.  Gothard,  dangers  of  tlie,  180-1 
St.  James’s  Hall,  Dickens’s  final 
reading  at,  430-1  (see  407-8) 

St.  Legcr,  Dickens’s  prophecy  at 
the,  321 

St.  Louis  (U.S  ),  Icvco  at,  115; 


slavery  at,  ib. ; a pretty  scene, 
116-17;  duelling  in,  118 
Stafford  (Augustus),  269 
Stage-coach,  queer  American,  107-8 
Stage,  training  for  the,  185 
Stanfield  (Clarkson),  50,  149,  15 1, 
167,  172,  260,  427;  sketches  in 
Cornwall  by,  13 1-2;  his  illustra- 
tions to  Battle  of  Life,  215  ; his 
Lighthouse  scene,  34 1 ; at  work, 
319  ; death  of,  356 
.Stanfield  Hall,  Dickens  at,  262 
Stanley  of  Alderley  (Mr.),  50 
Stanley  (Dr.  A.  P.),  Dean  of  West- 
minster, compliance  wdth  general 
wish,  434  ; letter  and  sermon,  ib. 
Stanton  (Secretary),  curious  story 
told  by,  396  (and  see  422) 
Staplehurst  accident,  352,  373 ; ef- 
fect on  Dickens,  355,  373-4  (see 

407,  430) 

■Statesmen,  leading  American,  103-4 
State  Trials,  story  from  the,  377-8 
Stealing,  Carlyle’s  argument  against, 
98 

Steamers,  perils  of,  95-7,  1 14-15 
(and  see  291-2) 

Stevenage,  visit  to  the  hermit  near, 

342 

Stevens  (Mr.),  “ mare  ” of  Roches- 
ter, 330 

Stirling  (Mr.),  a theatrical  adapter,  48 
Stone  (Frank),  at  Boulogne,  299; 

fancy  sketch  of,  229 
Strangford  (Lord),  264 
Streets,  crowded,  Dickens’s  craving 
for,  162,  204-6,  208-9 
Strange  GentNnan,  a farce  written 
by  Dickens,  30 
.Stuart  (Lord  Dudley),  266 
.Sue  (Eugene),  221 
Sumner  (Charles),  87,  395*6,  398 
Sunday,  a French,  217 
Swinburne  (Algernon),  250 
Switzerland,  splendid  scenery  of, 
180;  villages,  181  ; Dickens’s  re- 
solve to  write  new  book  in,  187  ; 
early  impressions,  189;  climate, 
194  note;  the  people  of,  194-5, 
198-9,  290;  mule-travelling,  197, 
290 Protestant  and  Catholic  can- 
tons, 199  ; Dickens’s  last  days  in, 
215-16;  pleasures  of  autumn,  216  ; 
revisited,  290 

Syme  (Mr.),  opinion  of,  as  to  Dick- 
ens’s lameness,  406 
Syracuse  (U.S.),  reading  at,  399,  402 

Tagart  (Edward),  137,  160,  200, 
266 

Taine  (M.),  on  Martin  Chuzzle-jeit, 
142  ; criticisms  on  Dickens,  149, 
232,  358-60 ; a hint  for,  248 ; 
Fielding  criticized  by,  3O5 
Tale  of  Two  Cities,  titles  suggested 
for,  366,  376  ; first  germ  of  Carton, 
376  (and  see  367-8) ; origin  of, 
366  ; characterized,  367-8 
Talfourd  (Judge),  49-5O)  67-8,  147-8, 
209-10,  265  (ami  see  433);  Dick- 
ens’s affection  for,  250 


Tauchnitz  (Baron),  intercourse  with 
Dickens,  408  note 

Tavistock -house,  sketch  of,  286 ; 
children’s  theatricals  at,  288,  318  ; 
a scene  outside,  318;  Stanfield 
scenes  at,  319,  341 ; sale  of,  346  ; 
startling  message  from  servant,  375 
Taylor  (Tom),  266 
Taylor  (the  Ladies),  202 
Telbin  (WiUiam),  260;  at  work,  319 
Temperance  agitation,  Dickens  on 
the,  245 

Temperature,  sudden  changes  of,  in 
America,  103  (see  391) 

Temple  (Hon.  Mr.),  178 
Tennent  (Sir  Emerson),  267,  291  ; 

death  and  funeral  of,  406 
Tenniel  (John),  261,  265 
Tennyson  (Alfred),  273;  Dickens’s 
allegiance  to,  126,  2O6 
Ternan  (Ellen  Lawless),  435 
Tete  Noire  Pass,  197  ; accident  in, 
ib.  198 

Thackeray  (W.  M.),  50,  135,  177, 
266,  273,  288;  ofl'ers  to  illustrate 
Pickwick,  30  (see  350) ; on  the 
Carol,  145;  his  fondness  for  Mrs. 
Steerforth,  279;  dinner  to,  289; 
in  Paris,  305  ; tribute  to,  by  Dick- 
ens, 338  (see  263) ; death  of,  350-51 
Thanet(Isle  of)  races,  Dickens  at,  126 
Theatre  Fran9ais  (Paris),  conven- 
tionalities of  the,  305-6 
Theatres,  Italian,  174;  French,  225 
Theatrical  Fund  dinner,  Dickens’s 
speech  at,  187,  271-3  (and  see  338) 
Theatricals,  private,  at  Montreal, 
123-4;  Rockingham,  269;  at 
Tavistock  House,  288-9  see 
318-19) 

Thomas  (Owen  P.),  recollections  of 
Dickens  at  school,  18-20 
Thompson  (Mr.  T.  J.),  267 
Thompson  (Sir  Henry),  consulted 
by  Dickens,  357 ; a reading  of 
Dickens’s  stopped  by,  406 ; opinion 
as  to  Dickens’s  lameness,  357,  406 
Thornton  (Mr.),  396 
Ticknor  (George),  87,  89 
Ticknor  & Fields  (Messrs.)  commis- 
sion received  by,  on  the  American 
readings,  404 

Timber  Doodle  (Dickens’s  dog),  126- 
7 ; troubles  of,  1 59  note 
Times  (the),  on  the  burial-place  of 
Dickens,  434 

Tindal  (Chief  Justice),  on  the  editor 
of  the  Satirist,  134 
Tintoretto,  Dickens  on  the  works  of, 
170,  296 

Titian’s  Assumption,  efl'ect  of,  on 
Dickens,  170 

Tobin  (Daniel),  a schoolfellow  of 
Dickens,  18;  assists  Dickens  as 
amanuensis,  but  iinally  discarded, 
19-20  (see  22,  (14) 

Toole  (J.  L.),  encouragement  given 
to,  in  early  life,  by  Dickens,  286 
Topham  (F.  W.),  261,  265 
Topping  (Groom),  O1-2,  06-7,  7.n 
«2,  123,  139 


INDEX. 


449 


Toronto,  toryism  of,  123 
Torquay,  readings  at,  346,  349,  405 
Torrens  (Mrs.),  267  (see  124) 
Townshend  (Chauncy  Hare),  80,  346 ; 

death  and  bequest  of,  404 
Townshend  (parson),  330 
Tracey  (Lieut,),  80,  125 
Tramps,  ways  of,  343 
Tremont  House  (Boston,  U.S.), 
Dickens  at,  86 

Trossachs,  Dickens  in  the,  74 
True  Sun,  Dickens  reporting  for,  24 
Turin,  Dickens  at,  ,296 
Turk  (Dickens’s  dog),  426 
Turner  ( J.  M.  W.),  at  the  Chuzzlewit 
dinner,  15 1 

Tuscany,  wayside  memorials  in,  177 
note 

Twickenham,  cottage  at,  occupied 
by  Dickens,  50 ; visitors  at,  ib. 
Tmss  (Horace),  265 
Tyler  (President),  103-4 
2'ylney  Hall  (Hood’s),  200 
Tynemouth,  scene  at,  355 

Uncommercial  Traveller,  Dickens’s, 

343-4 

Uncommercial  Traveller  Upside 
Down,  contemplated,  349 
Undercliff  (Isle  of  Wight),  Dickens’s 
first  impressions  of,  250 ; effect  of 
climate,  251-2 

Unitarianism  adopted  by  Dickens 
for  a short  time,  136-7 
Upholsterer,  story  of  an,  52 
Up  the  Rhine  (Hood’s),  Dickens  on, 
SI 

Utica  (U.S.),  hotel  at,  400-1 

Vauxhall,  tlie  Duke  of  Wellington 
and  party  at,  265 

Venice,  Dickens’s  first  impressions  of, 
168-9  )■  revisited,  295  ; habits  of 
gondoliers,  ib, ; theatre,  295 
Verdeil  (M.),  19 1-2 
Vernon  (Lord),  21 1;  eccentricities 
of,  201-2 

Vesuvius,  Mount,  ascent  of,  292 
Viardot  (Madame),  dinner  at  the 
house  of,  308-9 

Village  Coquettes,  story  and  songs 
for,  written  by  Dickens,  30  (see  31) 
Vote,  value  of,  in  America,  395 


Wales  (Prince  of),  and  Dickens, 
422 

Wainewright  (the  murderer)  recog- 
nized by  Macready  in  Newgate, 
5 1 ; made  the  subject  of  a tale  in 
the  New  York  Ledger,  344  (and 
see  265,  376) 

Wales,  North,  tour  in,  51 
Walker  (Judge),  party  given  by,  114 
Ward  (Air.  E.  M.)  and  the  Guild  of 
Literature  and  Art,  260 ; his 
Royal  Family  in  the  Temple,  31 1 
Warenousemen  and  Clerks’  Schools, 
Dickens  presiding  at  anniversary 
of,  338 

Washington  (U.S.),  hotel  extortion* 
at,  102  ; climate,  103  ; Congress 
and  Senate,  ib. ; a comical  dog  at 
reading,  397-8  ; other  readings  at, 
395 

Wassail-bowl  presented  to  Dickens 
at  Edinburgh,  327 
Waterloo,  Battle  of,  at  Vauxhall,  265 
Watson,  Mr.  (of  Rockingham),  190, 
200,  220,  268  ; death  of,  286 
Watson  (Mrs.),  190,  200,  268;  her 
sketch  of  Rosemont,  1 90 
Watson  (Sir  Thomas),  note  by,  of 
Dickens’s  illness  in  April,  1869, 
407-8 ; readings  stopped  by,  407  ; 
guarded  sanction  given  to  addi- 
tional readings,  ib.  408  (and  see 
409) 

Watts’s  charity  at  Rochester,  314 
note  (see  332) 

Webster  (Daniel),  103  ; on  Dickens, 
89 

Webster  (Benjamin),  267,  308 
Webster  murder  at  Cambridge 
(U.S.),  390 

Well-boring  at  Gadshdl,  331 
Weller  (Sam),  a pre-eminent  achieve- 
ment in  literature,  35 
Wellington  (Duke  of),  fine  trait  of, 
200;  at  Derby,  260  ; at  Vauxhall, 
265 

Wellington  House  Academy  (Hamp- 
stead-road),  Dickens  a day-scholar 
at,  17-21  ; described  in  House- 
hold Words,  21  (see  18) ; Dickens’s 
schoolfellows,  18-22  ; Beverley 
painting  scenes,  20 ; revisited  after 
five-and-twenty  years,  18 


THE  END. 


Westminster  Abbey,  the  burial  in, 

434 

Weyer  (AI.  Van  de),  265,  268 
Whig  jealousies,  73  (and  see  199) 
Whitechapel  workhouse,  incident  at, 
289-90 

White  - conduit  - house,  reminiscence 
of,  159 

Whitefriars,  a small  revolution  in, 
212 

White  (Rev.  James),  at  Paris,  305  ; 

character  of,  249-50  (and  see  250-1) 
White  (Airs.  James),  250-1,  305 
AVhite  (Grant),  on  the  character  of 
Carton  in  the  TaleofTwo  Cities,  368 
Whitehead  (Charles),  28 
Whitworth  (Air.),  267 
Wig  experiences,  227 
Wigton  (Cumberland)  descri'oed  by 
Dickens,  320 

Wilkie  (Sir  David),  on  the  genius  of 
Dickens,  49-50;  death  of,  71  and 
note 

WUks  (Egerton),  39,  267 
Wills  (W.  H.),  346,  418;  appointed 
assistant  editor  of  Household 
Words,  257  (see  436) 

Wilson  (Professor),  71 ; sketch  of, 
ib.  72  ; speeches  by,  160 
Wilson  (Su  John),  83,  125 
AVilson  (Air.),  the  hair-dresser,  fancy 
sketch  of,  226-7 

Women,  defective  legislation  respect- 
ing, 199  note  ; home  for  fallen,  271 
(and  see  378) 

AVorcester  (,U.S.),  reading  at,  402 
AVordsworth,  memorable  saying  of, 
382 

AVorms,  the  city  of,  188 

Yarmouth,  first  seen  by  Dickens, 
262 

Yates  (Edmund),  345-6 ; tales  by, 
in  All  the  Year  Round,  342  ; 
Dickens’s  interest  in,  418 
Yates  (Air.),  183  ; acting  of,  48,  147 
York,  readings  at,  337,  406 
Yorkshire  materials  gathered  in,  for 
Nickleby,  48 
Young  (Julian),  250 

Zouaves,  Dickens’s  opinion  of  the, 

310 


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